


Andraste's Kiss

by runsinthefamily



Series: Andraste's Kissverse [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alistair has a name kink, M/M, Political Intrigue, Post Resolved Sexual Tension, Zevran is an idiot, aphrodisiac, virgin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:55:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runsinthefamily/pseuds/runsinthefamily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kmeme prompt: <i>Zevran and Alistair are in a room. There weapons are gone and neither of them can pick locks. The room has only one door very heavy door, no windows, a bed and a jar of oil on the nightstand.</i></p><p><i>Not too odd yeah?</i></p><p><i>Only problem, they have both been dosed with a strong aphrodisiac. </i></p><p>Started as a very simple PWP and then ... grew.  Like kudzu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Zevran came to, head aching and body chilled. His eyes sprang open, but long, harsh training kept the rest of his body still, relaxed.

He was laying on the floor. The only light was an oil lamp on the wall and a faint glow from beneath the door. The room had the look of a bedchamber in a fairly high class manor house, except that the windows all had boards nailed over them, and the only furniture left was the four poster bed and a matching nightstand. The carpet beneath him was soft, at least.

Someone moaned behind him and he cursed himself for not noticing their breathing before hand. "What? Zev - why does my head hurt so much?"

He sighed, pushed himself up, and looked over at Alistair. Brown eyes blinked painfully at him. "We have been taken," said Zevran. "By whom, I do not know." They were still clothed, at least. That was something.

"Where are we?" Alistair raised his head, winced, and set it carefully down again.

"Again, you ask a question to which I have no answer, my friend," said Zevran. He got to his feet and padded over to the nearest blocked window. A short examination showed that nothing less than a crowbar would pry the boards free. He swayed a little as he turned around again and was forced to put a hand to the wall to keep his balance. The headache was waning, but a strange, feverish heat was taking its place.

Alistair sat up, opening the collar of his shirt. His colour was high, and his gaze a bit unfocused.

"Alistair," said Zevran. "Tell me, do you feel dizzy? Hot?"

"Yes," said Alistair. "Hot."

"We have been poisoned," said Zevran calmly, sitting down on the bed.

"What?" Alistair looked at him, eyes wide.

"I don't think fatally. Be easy, my friend. There are a few things it might be, from the symptoms. If we'd had a lethal dose we would be dead already."

"What's it going to do to us?" Alistair loosened another tie of his shirt, letting it gape over his rather well-developed pectorals.

"I, uh," Zevran tore his eyes away. "Cramps perhaps, or a shaking fever. If it is Red Loamling, we may spend the next few hours vomiting, which will soon lose its thrill."

"Hurrah," said Alistair. He shoved himself upright, leaning on the wall. "Maker, I'm hot." He stripped his shirt off in one movement and flung it to the floor. "So hot," he said again, pressing his forehead to the stone wall.

"Yes," said Zevran, eyes fixed to the broad, rippling back muscles on display.

Alistair sighed and flattened himself against the wall, pressing heated flesh to the cool stone and letting out a small groan of appreciation. The sound went directly to Zevran's cock.

"Ah," said Zevran, "an interesting choice."

"Whatza?" Alistair muttered into the wall.

"I know what we have been given," said Zevran. He wanted to laugh, or possibly scream. His memories of the last time he'd experienced this particular drug were not good ones. "It is Andraste's Kiss," he said. "It's given to slaves."

Alistair turned and regarded him through hooded eyes. "Why?" he asked. His voice was heavy. He rolled his head back against the wall, arched his back.

Zevran caught his breath at the sight, swayed forward with mouth open. "Your pardon?" he asked hoarsely.

"Why do they give it to slaves," Alistair said.

"To make them willing," said Zevran.

"Willing," Alistair echoed. His eyes were glazed, his lips wet.

Zevran squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his hands into the bedclothes. He had to stay focused. They were in danger here.

"Zevran," said Alistair. "Willing to do what?"

"Anything. Everything." Memories bloomed like dark flowers in Zevran's mind, that room with the satin sheets and the special ... furniture. How long had they kept him there? He had never found out. Not long. Long enough.

"Like ... like what?"

Zevran opened his eyes again. Alistair was on his knees now, still pressed against the wall. His cock was half-hard, pressing against the cotton of his trousers. Sweat stood out on his lightly haired chest and stomach, beaded on his forehead. Zevran wanted to lick it off.

"Like what, Zevran?" Alistair's voice had gone hazy, slurred.

"It ..." Zevran swallowed. "It doesn't matter," he went on with an effort. "Just - stay with your friendly wall, and I shall remain here, and in a few hours the effects will wear off." A few hours of agony, of course, but better that than Alistair's eventual wrath and shame.

"I want, I want ..." Alistair put a hand to his neck, rubbing. Then he looked at Zevran and for a moment his eyes were almost clear. "What's happening?" he whispered. Fear and desire were mixed together in his voice and Zevran nearly groaned aloud.

"It's the Kiss," he said. His hands hurt from how hard he was gripping the sheets now. "It makes you want sex. I will not touch you, do not worry, my friend."

"Maker," said Alistair. His already flushed face went red as fire. "What kind of crazy drug is this?"

Zevran laughed, a little wildly.

Alistair shivered at the sound. "Why - why won't you touch me?" he asked. "I think ... I want you to."

" _Concha de Creador_ ," Zevran said, desperately. Waves of heat and lust rolled through him.

Alistair crawled across the rug toward him, eyes fixed on Zevran's. "I like your voice," he said. "I've always liked it. Even when you tease me."

"Alistair," said Zevran. "You must stop."

"No," said Alistair. He reached Zevran and put his hands - warm and large and calloused - on Zevran's knees.

The touch thrilled along his nerves, turned his core to jelly. Zevran put his hands on the other man's wrists, intending to push him away. Instead he found himself sliding his fingers up Alistair's arms, ruffling the hair ever so gently, watching with open mouth how goosebumps raced along the flesh ahead of his touch.

Alistair made a low, whining, needy sound.

"We - we should not do this," said Zevran, fighting with all his might to maintain control. He was losing. "You will hate me later, Alistair, if we continue ..."

"Say it again," said Alistair, dragging his hands up and down on Zevran's thighs. "Say my name."

" _Joder_ ," Zevran groaned.

"Zev - Zevran," said Alistair. "Please, I -"

Zevran gave up, leaned forward, and kissed Alistair.

It was just as he had imagined it would be, kissing Alistair. Eager and fumbling and trusting and quick to follow, quick to learn and take those lessons and build on them until it was Alistair who drove the kiss, who plunged his tongue into Zevran's mouth and cupped his hands around Zevran's jaw to tilt his head and allow deeper access. Gods old and new, it was amazing.

Alistair broke the kiss, reared back and began dragging at Zevran's shirt, ripping the laces free and pulling it up. When the hem came high enough to reveal the bottom edge of a tattoo, Alistair pushed him down on the bed and put his mouth to the dark ink.

Zevran let out a low cry at the wet touch of his mouth. When Alistair ran his fingers into the waistband of his pants, he made a tremendous effort, twisted free of the other man's grasp and rolled lithely off the other side of the bed. He was achingly hard, his head swam as if he'd been drinking wine all day long and the open, pleading look on Alistair's face was enough to undo a saint. But he was a Crow, and that meant control.

"I can knock you unconscious," he said. "I cannot help what dreams you will have, alas, but at least you will not have to face what your mindless lust drives you to while awake. Tell me you will not fight me, and I will do this for you. I swear that I will not touch you while you lie unawares."

Alistair blinked at him. "You don't want me," he said, sad as a kicked puppy.

Zevran snarled, hopelessly. "I am trying to be your friend."

"Be my friend," said Alistair. He climbed onto the bed and knelt there, barechested, hair tousled, lips red from kissing. "I won't hate you," he said. "I won't."

"That is the Kiss speaking with your tongue," said Zevran.

"Come here," said Alistair. "I - please, Zev." He ran a hand up into his hair and fisted it there, desperately. "I - I feel like I'm dying."

There was really only so much that one not-particularly-reformed Crow could take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Concha de Creador_ = Cunt of the Maker (ie, Andraste)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get down to business.

_Ask forgiveness later_ , he thought. _For now, for now ..._ He stepped back toward the bed on legs that felt weak and wavering.

Alistair reached out, gathered the fabric of Zevran's shirt in his hands, and lifted. "Maker's breath," he said as Zevran emerged. He tossed the garment aside and laid both trembling hands on Zevran's shoulders. His touch made Zevran shudder. "You're - wow," said Alistair. His pupils were blown wide, the black of them nearly consuming the brown iris.

"Eloquent as always, my friend," said Zevran.

"Don't - I want you to use my name," said Alistair. He ran his hands down Zevran's arms and then up his torso, as if he couldn't help himself. "Maker," he breathed again.

"As you wish," said Zevran. When Alistair's questing fingers ran over his nipples, he shut his eyes and let his head fall backward. "Alistair," he said and was unsurprised to hear the wavering of his voice. He was slipping, falling down the well of want again.

"Zev," said Alistair. The bed shifted and Zevran was pressed against Alistair's hot, sweating, insanely broad chest. _Warriors_ , he thought. _I do so appreciate warriors_. Then Alistair was kissing him again, and thought was no longer an option. Strong arms came around him, tensed, and then he was on the bed, beneath a deliciously heavy ex-almost-templar who seemed intent on kissing him into a shivering, voiceless madman. One of Alistair's thighs had ended up between his own and wasn't he the experienced one in this bed? How had it happened that he was pinned down, humping desperately against the other man, whimpering into his mouth?

"Can we - clothes off?" Alistair gasped into his ear.

In answer, he shoved his hands down the back of Alistair's pants and ran his fingernails over the sinfully taut buttocks he found there. Alistair yelped and thrust his hips forward. Gods, his cock felt enormous. Zevran was going to devour it. "Yes, yes, off," he hissed.

Skin. They could not get enough of it, pressing together the instant they divested themselves of their remaining clothing. Alistair gave a wordless shout as Zevran wrapped his hand around Alistair's cock and stroked once. Alistair fell back on the bed with Zevran on top of him, sucking and biting at his neck.

"Alistair," he purred.

"Nnh," said Alistair.

"I'm going to take your cock in my mouth now."

"Ghnn!"

"You are going to come on my tongue. Do you hear me?"

"Yes!" Alistair said. "Maker, yes!"

"Good." Zevran slid downward, savoring the slide of their bodies, the way Alistair stretched out beneath him. Alistair's cock was as gorgeous as the rest of him, thick and long and ever so slightly curved. Silvery beads of fluid gathered glistening at the slit. Zevran lapped them off, savouring the bittersalt taste.

Alistair arched underneath him, hands gathering the bedclothes tightly. Zevran pried them free and shoved them into his hair. "Do not be gentle," he said and bent to take Alistair's length in his mouth.

It helped, the insistent yank on his hair, the pain of it. Helped him keep his focus, keep him from simply climbing up on Alistair and taking him dry into his body, damn the consequences. Once Alistair came, he'd have a few moments of relative sanity and then they could, could ...

Tugs at his hair or no, he could not concentrate once Alistair started lifting his hips and moaning. He opened his throat and took the full length of Alistair's cock.

"Zev!" Alistair cried out. "Oh, Maker!" His fingers tightened, near to the point of ripping hair right out.

Zevran drew back, pressing his tongue against the vein, feeling Alistair's frantic pulse beating against him, and then sank back down, sucking, swallowing.

Alistair keened and spilled down Zevran's throat. Zevran milked him dry, working him until he writhed and pushed at Zevran's face, sobbing. Zevran sat back on his heels and watched Alistair come back down, shivering and panting.

"Alistair," he said cautiously. "How do you feel?"

"Uh." Alistair lifted his head, and yes, his eyes had cleared somewhat. "Zevran," he said.

Teats of Andraste, he looked magnificent, debauched and languorous. "Are you well?" asked Zevran. His fingers twitched. His cock twitched.

"Are you joking?" asked Alistair. "That was ... really ... licking lampposts is wildly underrated."

"You are not upset?" Zevran clarified. It was taking everything he had not to jump the other man again and just shamelessly rut against him.

"No," said Alistair. He sounded a bit surprised. "No, even though I - wow, I did not think it would be so .... can we do it again?"

Zevran made a small sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

"Er, I mean," Alistair sat up. "Can I do it for you? You look really ... ah ... um ..." His eyes fell to Zevran's lap and his face went a bit slack again. "Can I?" he said.

"You can do whatever you like," said Zevran. "Indeed, if you do not I think that I may have to kill you."

Alistair's touch was hesitant at first but quickly grew confident as Zevran arched and gasped and grabbed at Alistair's shoulders to hold himself steady. "Here," said Alistair, picked him up bodily, and settled him into Alistair's lap. "This is more familiar," Alistair murmured into his ear. "The angle, and so on. Zev, you smell good."

Zevran bent his head back over Alistair's shoulder, pliant and submissive. Alistair nuzzled his neck, ran his free hand over his body, and worked him faster. "Dammit," he muttered as their skin rubbed and stuttered. Zevran could hardly care about chafing at this point, but Alistair brought up his hand and licked his palm thoroughly. The resultant smooth glide was enough to bring him in three short, fast strokes, spurting over his belly and legs and Alistair's hand.

Zevran collapsed against Alistair, boneless and, well, not sated. The Kiss would not let him be, coiling in his blood like honey and fire. Beneath him, he felt Alistair's cock stirring again.

"I think mine was better," said Alistair. He went on gently stroking Zevran, the movement of his hand slick and wet with Zevran's spend. "Maker you feel ... you feel like the best thing ever."

"You are astonishing," Zevran said. "I cannot believe you were raised in a Chantry. Where are your blushes now?"

Alistair ducked his head down, pressing his forehead to Zevran's shoulder. "I don't know," he said. "I don't - I don't think I can blame it ..." He lifted his hips a little, making them both draw in their breath. "Ashes of the Bride," he said and began kissing Zevran's neck. "Your skin," he mumbled. "It's ... mmmnn."

Every kiss made Zevran shiver. "Alistair, stop," he said. Alright, whined. "Stop, please. We - we need to find ..." Alistair bit him gently below the ear. "Ah! Ah! _Joder!_ "

"Hoh - dehr?" asked Alistair.

"It means 'fuck,'" said Zevran and twisted in his arms. "As in, 'I want to fuck you, Alistair', or perhaps, 'please fuck me, Alistair,' although any combination of the two would suit me, to be sure." He straddled Alistair's thighs and began kissing him ruthlessly, with every ounce of skill he possessed. There was no skill in the way that they ended up grinding together, however, too wild and desperate to even use their hands, just driving relentlessly against one another until first Alistair and then Zevran cried out and spent against their bellies.

They lay gasping, sweaty and sticky and still, still, the heat moved through them.

"Oil," said Zevran. He rose from the bed on wobbling legs, trying to make use of the respite his orgasm granted him. A quick ransack of the nightstand revealed nothing. He turned his gaze on the lamp. A quick pinch extinguished the flame. Cursing at the heat, he plucked the wick out, sniffed the reservoir. Plain oil. It would do.

With the lamp gone, only a trace bit of light from under the door and around the boarded up windows illuminated the room. Everything was dim shapes and faint outlines. "Zev?" said Alistair from the bed. "Why did you ..."

"We need the oil," said Zevran. "You don't need to see me, _caro_." He set the lamp on the nightstand.

"I like seeing you," said Alistair, shifting toward him.

"See me with your hands, then," said Zevran. he climbed onto the bed, found Alistair's hands, and set them on his hips. "See me with your lips. With your body." He lay down and pulled the other man over onto him. "See me," he whispered.

"Zev," Alistair said, softly, like a wish, or a prayer. Fingers trailed over Zevran's face, traced his pointed ears, smoothed his hair away from his eyes. "I see you," said Alistair. "Your h-handsome face." Down his neck, across his collarbone. "Your shoulders." A kiss, in the hollow of his throat. "Your chest." Tongue on his left nipple. "Your belly." A hesitation as Alistair encountered the remnant of their former pleasure, and then an open mouthed, sucking kiss below his navel. "Y-your ... your cock." The word came out awkwardly but so laden with lust and anticipation that Zevran's toes curled up.

Then Alistair put his mouth over him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok, um. This is the most graphically explicit piece of smut I have ever written. Enjoy!

Again, Alistair proved himself a quick study, emulating what Zevran had done to him, responding to Zevran's moans and cries and twitches. Zevran meant to pull him away at the critical moment, sincerely meant to, but when sparks began to shoot up his spine and he tugged at Alistair's hair, the man made a small sound, a low, questioning _hum_ and Zevran came into the hot wet of Alistair's mouth.

Alistair jerked a little, pulled back in surprise, and Zevran's seed spilled down his chin, glistening in the low light. Gods, the sight of it - ! Zevran sat up, still quaking from his orgasm, and licked Alistair's chin and mouth.

"Uh!" Alistair said. "Sorry, I didn't - Zev - mmmph!"

Zevran thrust his tongue into the other man's mouth, groaning a little. Mercy of the gods, he was getting hard again, already. The Kiss must be peaking. "Fuck me now," he muttered against Alistair's lips. "Fuck me now, my lovely, my passion. With the taste of me still on your lips."

"I don't - Zev, ah, _Maker_ Zev, I don't understand, you're speaking Antivan..."

Zevran broke away, fumbled at the nightstand, plunged his hand into the oil, nearly upsetting the lamp. When he fisted it, dripping, around Alistair's cock, the other man choked off a cry and surged his hips forward so powerfully that they both nearly fell over. Zevran clambered forward gracelessly, straddling Alistair's thighs. He took his oiled hand to his buttocks, delved between, thrust two fingers in without hesitation. It stung, and he yelped.

"What are you - ?" Alistair's hands closed around his, investigated. "Oh. Oh."

"Stretch," said Zevran, concentrating hard to speak Ferelden. "Can't - without ..."

"Inside you?" asked Alistair. "Maker. Maker. Alright. Let me ..."

Zevran pushed his face into the warm curve between Alistair's neck and shoulder as Alistair worked his thick fingers into him. "Maker," Alistair said, and "Oh, holy Andraste," and "Zevran, I just - wow." Zevran bit him, ungently. "Fuck!" said Alistair.

Zevran batted his hand away, took hold of his shoulders, and, after a moment's positioning, sank down onto Alistair's cock. "Ah, gods!" he cried out hoarsely. Alistair had no words, it seemed, only sucked in his breath and dug his fingers into Zevran's hips, arms quivering with strain.

It had been a while and the preparation had been hasty but the feeling as Alistair slowly parted him was so intensely pleasurable that it stole Zevran's breath, left him reeling drunkenly, sure that he was going to orgasm the minute Alistair so much as twitched.

"Zev," moaned Alistair. His breath sobbed in Zevran's ear. "Oh, Maker, oh, Zevran."

"Yes," Zevran hissed. "Like that, oh, like that. You are magnificent, my darling." It occurred to him suddenly that he was taking Alistair's virginity. He jerked, lost control, and took the remainder of Alistair's length in a single quick movement.

Alistair's fingers bit into him bruisingly. They arched silently against one another. Neither of them came. The Kiss had them fully in its grasp now. Zevran remembered the red blur that had descended on him, the way that everyone's face has swum in his vision, mocking smiles, cruelty. But this was now, and this was Alistair, kind and lovely Alistair who did not even know how to be cruel. His features in the half-light were only open and trusting and shocked with pleasure.

They moved. Whispers and groans. Alistair's broken voice calling out blasphemies and endearments. His own smooth tones rough with abandon. _Caro_ , he said, and _amore_ , and _mi tesoro_. Down they went, and further down. Zevran lost track of time, of the space around them, of anything beyond their bodies. When Alistair at last spilled into him, it hardly slowed them. Zevran pushed Alistair against a bedpost and spent an unknowable time rimming him, the sounds the other man made enough to bring him to peak again. At some point they knocked the lamp off the nightstand and onto the floor, shattering the glass and spraying oil everywhere. It made no matter. They were slippery with sweat and come and oil already, sliding together like seals. Alistair had him again, and then he had Alistair and then they did it all again.

Eventually, slowly, the Kiss began to recede. They were spooned, Alistair slowly working in and out of him, forehead pressed against Zevran's back between his shoulderblades. Leaden languor suffused every inch of Zevran's body. Alistair huffed out a breath and sped up every so slightly. Without a Crow's resistance and discipline when it came to drugs, he was coming down more slowly than Zevran, it seemed.

"Alistair," said Zevran. He hardly recognized his voice.

At the sound of his name, Alistair shuddered, tensed, and came. "Maker," he whispered. When he relaxed, it was with boneless totality.

"Alistair," said Zevran again. There was no response. He could not keep his eyes open. So be it. If they were slain while they lay here, unconscious from pleasure, it was a good enough way to die. He leaned back into the heat of Alistair's chest and let the Fade take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _caro_ = darling  
>  _amore_ = love  
>  _mi tesoro_ = my treasure


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran is so good at some things ... and so bad at others.

When Zevran awoke again, Alistair had rolled away and was sprawled face down in the filthy sheets, a small, almost polite snore attesting to his slumber. Zevran sat up, stiff enough that even his training could not keep a wince from creasing his brow. He got off the bed, avoiding the shattered lamp, and used a partially-clean corner of the blanket to try and tidy himself. It was a token effort, at best. He was going to reek of sex until he found a bath.

The glow of light around the boarded windows was strong and yellow - daytime, then. Probably midmorning, if his time sense had not deserted him entirely. He ran his hands through his hair. Of all the awkward mornings he had ever navigated, this was surely going to be the most challenging. _At least he will not awaken on a stone floor, with a boot in his ribs and a bucket of cold water as greetings._

Slowly, painfully, he moved through his morning stretches until his body felt loose enough to function normally. Halfway through, the snoring stopped. Well. He would give Alistair time to collect himself. Eventually he finished, turned, and saw Alistair watching him.

"Good morning to you," he said.

"Is that what it is?" Alistair said groggily. He turned his head to look at the boarded windows and grimaced sharply. "Ok, ow."

"Our - exertions are not without price, it seems," said Zevran.

"Um," said Alistair and blushed red enough to set his hair on fire.

"I could perhaps offer you a massage?" asked Zevran. He could not, simply could not help it.

Alistair turned his face into the pillow. "Mmmr oo munna hell mmrbnny?"

"What was that?" asked Zevran. "Please, my friend, you will need to look at me eventually."

Alistair surfaced, glaring at him. His cheek still flamed. "Are you going to tell everybody?"

Zevran let his smirk fade into a more genuine smile. "No," he said. "While I would not hesitate to brag about bedding so magnificent a man under usual circumstances, you were not yourself."

This only served to make Alistair blush further.

"I hope," Zevran paused, searching for words. "I can only hope that your introduction to sex will not leave too many unpleasant memories."

Alistair let out an incredulous laugh. "How can you - you're just going to stand there, _naked_ and ..." He pushed himself up, grunting as his stiff muscles protested. "You - we - I ..."

"It was the drug," said Zevran. "Really, what more can be said, yes?" He scanned to room for his clothing. "But since my nakedness bothers you ..."

"The drug," said Alistair. He sat in the ruin of the bed, clutching the sheet over his lap. His brown eyes were wide and confused and hurt. "I remember talking. You said ..."

"I'm sure that we both said many things," said Zevran. Where were his damnable pants? Ah, there.

"Oh."

Zevran looked back at Alistair. Alistair was staring down at his hands, those beautiful shoulders slumped. His hair glinted gold in the thin beams of sunlight that fell across the bed. He looked like something crafted by a desire demon, which made his next words even more absurdly heartbreaking.

"Right. Of course. Stupid of me." He forced a smile. "I'm sorry. I remember you trying not to, and I - I thought ... it was stupid."

"My friend,' said Zevran. "You have done nothing for which to feel - "

"Let's just - it's fine." Alistair threw off the sheet, found his pants, and tugged them on. "We have other things to concentrate on. Whoever put us here is going to come back eventually, right?" He strode to the nearest window, examined it for a minute, and then drew back his right fist and punched straight through the board.

Zevran lifted both eyebrows. He had no doubt that if he had tried such a stunt, he would have broken every bone in his hand. Alistair, on the other hand, pulled back his fist and shook it absently for a moment before seizing the broken edge of wood and pulling. All the heavy muscles in his back and shoulders bunched and tensed with effort and the board came free with a squeal of tortured wood. Sunlight flooded the room, revealing the absolute mess they'd made of it. Alistair tossed the board across the room.

"Hn," he said. "I think we're near the Arl of Denerim's estate. I can see that hideous statue in the square."

Zevran came forward and leaned to see through the leaded glass. He could feel the warmth of Alistair's body and tried conscientiously not to touch him. "Ah, yes," he said. "The abandoned estate, I recall now. A perfect place for a quiet interrogation, I thought at the time. I see that I am not the only one with an eye for such things."

Alistair shifted uncomfortably. "Let me clear the rest of the window. You can see if you can climb down, or ... whatever."

Zevran backed away and pretended to be shaking out his shirt. It was difficult to concentrate on anything with Alistair's methodical demolition of the barricade over the window happening, all controlled violence and smooth skin shifting over bulging, working muscle. By the end he was sheened with sweat and breathing a little heavily.

 _Gods above, am I to stare besottedly simply because I have bedded him?_

Alistair hefted the last board and armed sweat out of his eyes. "The window doesn't open, Zev. Step back."

The casual intimacy of his shortened name tied Zevran's tongue. He stepped back obediently.

Alistair stepped to the side of the window and let fly. The crash of breaking glass was like music and the breeze that flowed into the room, clearing the air, was sweet as wine. The shouts from the grounds outside were not as lovely.

Zevran was at the window in a flash, peering out. Just as quickly, he jerked his head back. A crossbow bolt flew through the space his nose had occupied a breath before. "I think that we may have company quite soon," he commented.

"Well," said Alistair, and swung the board again. "I suggest we prepare to meet them."

Months of working together on the field of battle had given every member of the Warden's party a fine-tuned affinity for each other's strengths and abilities. Barely a word was required to put them on either side of the door. And when the first man burst through, daggers at the ready, Zevran dodged, kicked the man's companion back into the hall beyond, and then rolled out of the way of Alistair's sudden lunge. The door slammed shut and Alistair leaned into it, resisting the furious barrage that hammered from the other side.

Their opponent wheeled, tried to recover his balance, but Zevran was already inside his guard. A quick arm lock, one hand down to catch the falling dagger, and he slit the man's throat. He flipped the other dagger up with his toe, caught it, and nodded to Alistair.

Alistair set his foot back a bit and let up pressure on the door slowly. It creaked open a handsbreadth, and Zevran showed himself in the gap, smirking at the press of men cursing and shoving on the other side. A longsword thrust through at him and he stepped up beside it, caught it between his newly acquired daggers, and twisted. It rang as it fell to the floor. Alistair let out a shout, dropped his shoulders, and rammed the door shut again. Some unfortunate did not snatch his fingers back in time and an agonized scream put a grin on Zevran's face.

"For you, my friend," he said, scooping up the sword and handing it to Alistair.

"Whittle them out some more, or go straight through?" Alistair asked.

"While I am always an appreciative guest, I think that perhaps it is time we depart this lovely establishment," said Zevran. "Do you not agree?"

Alistair's eyes flicked past Zevran to the bed, to the broken glass and oil, the bedsheets trailing on the ground. His eyes darkened. "Right," he said. "Let's just get out of here."

He sprang away from the door with his usual deceptive speed. Such a large man and yet so light on his feet. Control and discipline. Zevran _wanted_ in that moment, wanted more than anything to take Alistair to bed again, to see what he was like without an aphrodisiac driving him.

There were, unfortunately, several large armed men pouring into the room, and perhaps now was not the best time for indulging in erotic fantasy. Zevran slid under a sword blow and put his other skill set to use.

They slaughtered their way into the hall and down the stairs, harvesting armor and potions and gear from their fallen foes, until they found the secret door in the kitchen. A passage through the cellars brought them up into the streets by the Alienage, and fifteen minute's walk got them to the Arl of Redcliff's front gate.

"Well," said Zevran. "At least we stink of sweat and blood now, instead of sweat and ... other things."

Alistair nodded.

"We were poisoned," said Zevran. "And lay insensible until we awoke this morning, yes?"

Alistair nodded again and looked away. There was a lovebite just where his shoulder met his neck and Zevran reached out without thinking and turned his collar up. Alistair flinched away like a startled horse and Zevran took his hand back, cursing himself silently. "You, ah, I left a mark just there," said Zevran. Stuttering? _Gods above, I have lost every ounce of self control._ "Rub a bit of elfroot on it, it will fade in no time." He offered an encouraging smile. "Shall we go in and set our doubtless frantic companions' minds at ease?"

Alistair drew in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and marched in through the gate.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair does not eat and Zevran does not Get It.

The front door flew open as they approached and Duran strode out in shiny dragonbone, his squat, powerful frame practically bristling with leashed aggression. He was flanked by Leliana, Shale, and Morrigan, all with shoulders squared and gazes intent, all daggers and crystals and polished staffs gleaming in the sun. It was a sight to inspire poetry, heroism, and pants-wetting fear. The way the the three behind Duran ran into him when he stopped dead was slightly less impressive.

Duran wrenched his helmet off and tossed it at Shale, who caught it deftly. "You nug-humping, Stone-forgotten, son-of-a-Duster," he said, crossed the ten steps between him and Alistair, and threw his arms around his fellow Warden in a clashing, rattling hug.

Alistair huffed out a ghost of a laugh and hugged him back. For a minute it was all back slapping and grunts and various sounds of masculine approval and then they broke apart again.

"So much for the grand rescue," said Duran. He turned to Zevran and gave him a bow. "I shoulda known better," he said. "No one can keep a Crow long, no matter how they clip its wings."

"No clipping." Zevran spread his arms. "Entirely intact, my dear Warden."

Duran snorted and clapped him on a shoulder.

"Alistair," said Leliana. "Zevran." She embraced them both warmly. "I am so glad to see you safe and well. You ... _are_ well?" Her keen eyes lingered on Alistair's face.

"Fine," said Alistair. "We were drugged but we're fine."

Morrigan sighed audibly. "If I am not to get the chance to rip some fools asunder, may I return to my rooms?"

Shale shifted, crunching. "Yes. It is safe, the one who talks too much. And the painted elf. I am overwhelmed with joy. You may find me in the gardens if you need me."

"We still have that noble's son to hunt down," said Duran, quellingly. "Don't get too comfortable."

Inside, Eamon greeted them (well, greeted _Alistair_ ) with genuine relief and pleasure. Oghren belched in an approving manner, Wynne fussed over them, and even the servants fluttered a bit.

A note had arrived in their absence, it seemed, from supporters of Loghain, telling Eamon to throw his support to the Regent or receive Alistair's head in a box.

"Great," groaned Alistair. "This is what comes of people wanting you to be king. Knocked unconscious, locked in a musty old manor, doped with ..."

Zevran jabbed him subtly in the side and Alistair snapped his mouth shut. Duran narrowed his eyes.

"Well, let me just run a quick check, to see that you came through unhurt," said Wynne.

"We are fine," said Zevran smoothly. "In need of a bath and some time to rest, however."

"Uh, yes," said Alistair. "Bath. And rest. Good idea."

"The noble's support ..." said Eamon.

"Can be dealt with by the rest of us," said Duran. "Now that we know they are safe, I can turn my attention to other things. Leliana, will you round up the two sourpusses?"

"Of course, dear," said Leliana, dropping a kiss on his head in passing.

"Very well," said Wynne. She shook a finger in Alistair and Zevran's direction. "But you are to come to me if you have any lingering effects, is that clear?"

"I shall hasten to your side if I experience the slightest twinge," said Zevran, capturing her hand for a kiss and letting Alistair slip out as everyone dispersed.

"Kindly refrain from dampening my hand," said Wynne in exasperation.

He let her go with a sly smile, turned, and found Duran standing directly behind him, those dark eyes like two dwarven-crafted augers. The room was empty but for the two of them.

"What happened to Alistair?" Duran asked.

"My dear Warden..." began Zevran.

"Don't spin me any of your fancy Crow nugshit, either," said Duran with his usual tact. "Something happened. Something that makes him avoid anyone's gaze and stare at the floor and actually stop prattling for the length of three breaths. So start talking. What happened to my Brother?"

"We were taken hostage. We fought our way out," said Zevran. "Anything else that may have happened is not mine to tell."

Duran sucked his teeth for a moment. "Alright," he said. "Go take a bath, you stink. But Zevran ..."

Zevran turned, one foot already on the stair.

"I'll find out," said Duran. "One way or another, you know I will. So if there's anything you want to say, right now, better say it."

Zevran sighed. "I did my best," he said. "Whether it was good enough, that I do not know."

"Huhn," said Duran and waved him away.

A hot bath with soap and scented oils went a long way toward dispersing Zevran's lingering pangs of - what, exactly? Lust? Regret? Guilt? Surely not. If anything, he should be relieved that Alistair hadn't throttled him upon waking.

 _I want you to use my name._

" _Brasca_!" he snapped into the empty room, dunked his head, and began vigorously soaping his hair.

He spent the evening rummaging through Duran's motley collection of gear to re-equip himself with something more fitting than the rusted, ill balanced shanks he'd taken from their captors and then whetting the edges til they split his skin with the slightest touch. Armor was all well and good, a bit of protection and the occasional enchanted aid to movement or speed, but weapons were important.

Duran and the others did not return that night and the gathering around the dinner table was quiet. Oghren bolted his food and then retired to the guard barracks, an ale-related gleam in his eye. Alistair did not attend. This left Zevran across the table from Wynne, the sole focus of her shrewd regard.

"Are you sure you are quite well?" asked Wynne.

"Of course, my dear Wynne," said Zevran. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you haven't said a single word about my bosom in two hours," said Wynne. "Not that I am complaining, but it seems out of character."

"Alas for your bosom!" declared Zevran. "Deprived of its rightful worship. Will you allow me to make amends?"

"I will allow you to tell me if you need healing," said Wynne. "Your behavior and that of Alistair tells me that something beyond simple imprisonment occurred to the two of you."

"Do not fret. I am a Crow," said Zevran. "What could some Fereldan do that I could not endure?"

"But Alistair is not a Crow," said Wynne.

"Is he not? How reassuring. I do like to be unique."

"Stop dodging the subject."

"I can only tell you what I told our esteemed leader," said Zevran. "If you wish to know how Alistair is faring, ask Alistair."

"I did," said Wynne. "He told me that he was fine and that he did not want supper."

Well. A Warden off his food _was_ worrying. Still, it was none of his concern. Let Duran talk to him, or Leliana. Surely Zevran was the last person that should intrude.

"I will knock on his door," said Zevran. _What am I doing_? "With a plate. Will that serve?"

"Thank you, Zevran," said Wynne. "I may revise my opinion of you yet."

 _I need to leave_ , he thought as he climbed the stairs, laden dinner plate in hand. _I am growing as soft as Orlesian cheese._

He rapped lightly on the door of Alistair's rooms. A full suite, close to Eamon's own. The Arl certainly did not have a light hand when it came to pursuing his aims.

"Go away," said Alistair from within.

"Alas, I cannot," Zevran said.

There was a pause, and then Alistair's voice came again, closer to. "Go away."

"I come bearing food, my friend," said Zevran.

Silence.

"I have, let us see, beef and potatoes and an apple and yes, I believe this is a sharp Fereldan cheddar." He sniffed operatically. "Ah, the scent alone is stirring."

The door opened, revealing Alistair, hair wet, wrapped in a damp robe. A trail of water led through the sitting room back into the inner chamber. He held out a hand. "Give it to me."

"Ah, ah," said Zevran, leaning away. "I am to make sure that you eat."

Alistair glared at him. A drop of water fell from the damp spikes of hair above his brow and landed on his nose. The robe was ... clinging. Here and there.

Alistair huffed a breath and then stood aside.

"So," said Zevran, entering the room and setting the plate on a nearby table. "This is a long bath you have been taking."

"I just got in," said Alistair. He sat at the table and tucked in. Cheese first, of course.

"Truly?" Zevran was nonplussed. He'd imagined Alistair up here, scrubbing as if soap could save his soul. Instead he'd - what, sat about with the the remnants of last night's pleasures still clinging to his skin? Zevran bit the inside of his cheek.

"I fell alseep," said Alistair. For some reason that made him flush slightly.

"You are well then?"

Alistair's jaw tightened. "How long do the, um, aftereffects last?" he asked.

"Aftereffects?" Zevran's brow creased.

"Of that drug. The - the Kiss."

"Ah. There are none," Zevran assured him. "The drug was cycled out of our systems when we awoke. It is not harmful, except in the excesses to which it drives its victims."

Alistair was staring at him now, a hunk of cheese forgotten in his hand.

"Are you feeling unwell? Shall I call Wynne?"

"No," said Alistair. "No, I just ... no." He looked at the cheese and then set it back down.

Zevran sighed. "You should talk to someone, my friend. It does not have to be me," he said, holding up a hand against Alistair's slightly panicked look. "Clearly you are troubled by what occurred between us. I am not such a hedonist that I cannot see that others do not share my views on sexual matters. Speak with your fellow Warden, or to Leliana. And if I can assist you, I will."

Alistair stared at the wall for moment. "You're being so ...nice," he said. "It's confusing."

"I could leer and make cheap innuendo if you would prefer," said Zevran, raising one eyebrow.

"What was all that stuff you said last night?" Alistair asked abruptly.

"Your pardon?" asked Zevran.

"All the Antivan. After a while it was like you forgot how to speak Ferelden."

"I, ah ..." _Mi tesoro. Caro mio_. "I do not remember," Zevran lied smoothly. "Much of it is a blur." Alistair's fingers in the dark, tracing his cheekbones ...

"Right," said Alistair. "Yeah, I don't remember much either." He shifted in his seat and his robe fell away from his shoulder. The lovebite was still there, lurid and red against Alistair's pale skin.

"Eat your dinner," said Zevran, standing hastily. "Or there will be scoldings, I was given to understand."

"Can't have that," said Alistair. "Scoldings are bad." He smiled, a ghost of his usual cheerful grin.

"Goodnight, my friend," said Zevran.

He leaned his forehead against the wall outside, wondering how, after all that he had done, all that he had _become_ , he could still find it possible to feel besmirched by any act.

He claimed a bottle of brandy from Eamon's considerable liquor pantry and set to drinking until he stopped seeing Alistair's sad brown eyes or until he passed out, whichever came first.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Duran is a smart motherfucker.

When he awoke, Duran was sitting in the chair by the fireplace, watching him.

"Very sloppy, little Crow," said Duran.

"Pah," said Zevran. He closed his eyes again and breathed deeply, until he could ignore the pain in his head. One bottle had become two before he'd overcome his trained Crow constitution. It had been a long while since he'd been hungover.

"I thought you were through with all this death-wish business," said Duran.

"Well, my Warden, when you refused me your bed, I admit, it was a blow," said Zevran lightly. He sat up, suppressing a wince, and ran his hands through his hair.

"Mnn," said Duran and Zevran tensed. "Speaking of bedding Wardens ..."

"Ah," said Zevran.

"Ah," agreed Duran.

"He told you, then."

"I did tell you I would find out," said Duran. "He required some persuasion but in the end I got it out of him. He seemed relieved to tell someone."

"Good," said Zevran. "It is not an easy thing to come to terms with, to lose control in such a way."

"So I am given to understand," said Duran.

"He is lucky to have a friend such as you."

"Zevran," said Duran, leaning forward. "I'm your friend, too."

Zevran blinked and then laughed. "So you came here to counsel me? Comfort me? Ah, dear Warden. I assure you, it was in no way a hardship."

"Hhmmmn," said Duran, another one of his aggravatingly noncommittal noises.

"He is a beautiful man," said Zevran. "While I would not have drugged him into my bed, having him there was hardly a trial."

"Mnnhn," said Duran.

"There was little choice in the matter, in any case," Zevran said, his voice growing sharper.

"They call it Harlot's Help, back home," said Duran. "Noblehunters use it sometimes. I can't understand why anyone would have given it to you and Alistair."

"It was a rather effective distraction," said Zevran.

"Alright, but while they did what, exactly? If they were just holding you, being chained in a dungeon would have been more effective." Duran worked his jaw a little. "I mean, the note was pretty standard hostage protocol. Dosing the two of you and letting you hump all night, that's definitely unstandard."

"True," said Zevran. "In any case, it is over."

Duran gave him a slightly incredulous look. "Did Alistair literally fuck your brains out?" he asked. "You killed the guards at the estate, sure. But we still don't know who was behind the whole thing. So if you're quite done drinking up Eamon's brandy I want you to take Leliana and go find out where you buy that stuff here in Denerim. It's not what you might call common, after all."

"You are right," said Zevran, aghast at his own blindness. "Of course you are right. My humble apologies, Duran."

"Hnn," said Duran and stood.

"H-how is Alistair?" Zevran asked, bracing himself.

"How do you think?" said Duran. "Confused as hell. Feeling sorry for himself. Kind of sulky." He grinned affectionately and shook his head. "I knew I should have gotten him laid the first time we hit Denerim."

"It is not a matter to be treated lightly," said Zevran, his voice a bit sharp.

"No?" said Duran, skewering him with one of those patented I-can-see-the-back-of-your-skull looks he was so very good at. "My mistake."

***

Zevran found Leliana waiting for him in the Arl's entry, her eyes kind and understanding.

"I see the news is spreading," he said with an easy smile. "Do try not to let on to Wynne. I am sure that she would rend her garments in fury that another in our little group tasted my favours before she. On second thought, tell her. Perhaps she will rend her bodice."

"I am not fooled," said Leliana as they walked out into the sunshine. "You may jest all you like, Zevran, but I know you well enough now to know that this must bother you."

"Ah, well," said Zevran. "I will get over it. Another night of passion with a handsome Warden should do the trick, would you not say? Can I persuade you to share yours, perhaps?"

Leliana sighed and shook her head. "Let's just get this done, yes?"

Zevran had made contact with the local Crow suppliers on his first visit to Denerim, which made it easy to point them out to Leliana. While she smiled and fluttered her eyelashes and generally barded, Zevran kept an eye on the other fine citizens that stopped at Ignacio's stall. Finally a slim elf showed up with a heavy box and left with a purse of money. Zevran sauntered away after him, trusting that Leliana would catch up.

Ten minutes later he was ensconced on the rooftop of a house in some forsaken stinking alley, watching the shack the elf had gone into. A light chirrup warned him of Leliana's advance, and he answered it. She slid up next to him a breath or two later. Lovely woman, talented and deadly. A bit crazy perhaps, but who among the Warden's group was not?

"Gone to ground?" Leliana breathed into his ear.

"Indeed," he said. "I circled around and found no other entrances. Unless they are hidden inside, which I cannot discount."

"Well," said Leliana. "How shall we approach this?"

"With caution," said Zevran. "This is the supplier of a Crow poisonmaker."

Her full lips quirked. "Duran would already be kicking the door in. And it is not as if we have not raised the ire of the Crows before."

He did very badly want to indulge in some violence. "Leliana," he said. "Run away with me and we shall raise grapes and fat children together."

She flashed him a smile and dropped off the roof.

As was always the case, the shack was filled to the roof with armed thugs. Where all these able bodied adults with (rudimentary, but still) fighting skills had come from after the disaster of Ostagar, Zevran had no idea. He and Leliana tore through them with speed and aplomb.

There was indeed a trapdoor and it indeed led down into an underground hall. Instead of being a maze of traps and more thugs and interesting trinkets, however, it opened out into a small workroom, inhabited by a small elven woman. The elven delivery boy Zevran had followed from the market cowered behind her. Crammed into the small space was a wealth of equipment and supplies that could have graced the poisonroom of a Master Crow.

The woman fixed them with a direct look as they stepped into the room. "Yes?" she said. "Has there been another change in management?" There was a clink as she shifted on her stool and Zevran flicked his eyes downward. Yes, she was chained to the wall.

Leliana made a small sound of distress and sympathy, but didn't move. Softhearted, hard headed, that was the bard.

"You might say that," said Zevran. The woman's eyes narrowed slightly at his accent. "And, as with any changeover, there exists opportunities." He smiled at her. "Perhaps I could interest you in an exchange?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Zevran Gets a Clue.

They met in Alistair's rooms, the four of them. It felt odd, after so long with everything shared and exposed as it had to be in a camp, to be hiding something from half the members of their group. Not that Zevran would have chosen to confide in any of the absent. The idea of Oghren or Morrigan choosing to torment Alistair was distinctly unpleasant.

"So," said Duran. "It can't have been brought in from elsewhere, because it only maintains efficacy for 48 hours. Only three people have the skill to make the stuff in Denerim, and this elf says she didn't do it, so that leaves two. One of whom is an Orlesian importer of perfume and ... _unmentionables_." He waggled his eyebrows cheerfully and Leliana giggled. "The other is some crazy apostate living down by the Alienage."

"Is this really what we need to be spending our time on, with the Landsmeet so close?" asked Alistair.

"It's a mystery," said Duran. "A gap in our knowledge of the enemy. And I do not like being ignorant." There was a cold, hard edge to his voice and Zevran abruptly recalled that Duran was a prince, raised in the vicious, cutthroat world of Orzammarrian politics. "Leliana and I will visit the Orlesian," he said. "Alistair, you take Zevran and question the apostate."

"Er," said Alistair, flushing a bit.

"It makes tactical sense," said Duran, clapping him on the shoulder. "Leliana is the smart choice for the merchant, and you're perfectly suited to handling some crazy mage type."

"You cannot fool me," said Zevran. "Go and peruse _aides d'amour_ with your lovely bard, then, and leave us to collar a scruffy potions peddlar."

Leliana let out a peal of laughter.

"But," said Alistair, desperately not looking at Zevran.

"Let's get to it, then," said Duran.

Alistair kept his silence as they made their way through the busy market district. Not lost in thought, or broody and unwary, simply quiet. After nearly a year of his goofy, ebullient prattling, it was unsettling and, if Zevran were to be honest with himself - a bit sad.

 _You did this._

Gods of the ancient past, he was getting tired of that little whisper, a voice he had thought he'd stamped out of existence long ago. The Crow with a conscience. It sounded like one of Leliana's overly dramatic ballads.

There was the shop, if it could be called such. A small, dirty little place with nothing to mark it other than a crude drawing of a bottle on the wall above the door.

"After you, my friend," said Zevran with an elaborate bow.

Alistair gave him an unreadable look - and when had _Alistair_ stopped being as open as a book? - and went in.

The shop walls were entirely lined in narrow shelves, filled with bottles and jars and phials of every possible colour and size. the sun broke through a gap in the roof and sparkled on one wall, throwing glints of multicoloured light everywhere. It was lovely. It was insane.

"Even if every one of these was nothing more than a minor salve ..." said Alistair.

"These walls would still hold a fortune," said Zevran.

There was a door in the back wall, slightly ajar. "Hello?" called Alistair.

"Yes? What?" The apostate apothecary was a man in his fifties, dressed very badly in clothing that had once been fine but was now a collection of embroidered rags. He held a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other.

"Sorry, we're here to ask if you ... um, you're dripping oatmeal on your floor," said Alistair.

"So what?" the man snapped. "It's my floor, isn't it?"

"An unassailable statement," said Zevran. "We are here to purchase something, not to criticize your housekeeping." He raised his eyebrows at Alistair.

"Right," said Alistair. He opened his mouth, then shut it again and glanced at Zevran. Soulful, soft, brown eyes below pinched golden brows pleaded silently.

Zevran sucked in a breath through his nose. "We are looking for Andraste's Kiss," he said.

The apothecary sucked oatmeal off his spoon, squinted at them, and then pointed the spoon at Zevran. "Who you going to use it on, hey? I don't sell that stuff to no slavers, rapists or people otherwise inclined toward nefariousness."

"On myself, of course," said Zevran with a smile. "Purely recreational."

"You're a liar," said the apothecary. "Get out."

"I assure you, ser ..."

"Assure my ass," said the apothecary. "Out!"

"Please," said Alistair. "We - we don't really want to buy any. We need to know who else has bought it. Recently."

The apothecary eyed him up and down. "Why?"

"Because ... because ..." Alistair flushed, miserably.

"Never mind," said the apothecary. "I'll tell you. I've only sold one bottle, to Bann Alfstanna, two days ago."

"What did she want it for?" asked Zevran.

The apothecary smiled thinly. "Recreational purposes. She gets a bottle every time she comes to Denerim, regular."

Alistair closed his mouth with an audible snap.

"You have been most helpful," said Zevran.

"And you've been a pain in the arse," said the apothecary. "Now get out. My oatmeal is getting cold."

***

"Do you believe him?" asked Alistair as they tramped back through the market.

"Yes," said Zevran. "And in any case, I would not wish to question him further without Duran and Leliana and possibly also Wynne, Morrigan, Shale, Oghren and, if we could manage it, an army to stand with us."

"Why?" asked Alistair.

"A shop like that? With no visible guards or protection? Just one skinny old man with a spoon? It smells of power, my friend. And," he said, shivering a bit, "he could tell I was lying."

***

"Alfstanna?" asked Duran, a frown creasing his brow. "That's ... not what I was expecting. Eamon tells me that she's likely to step up for the Wardens."

"Simply because she purchased the drug, does not mean that she was involved in the plot," said Zevran. "Was your own outing fruitful?"

Duran shook his head. "Says he only makes it during Satinalia."

"So, it has to be this bottle that Alfstanna bought," said Alistair. "How exactly are we supposed to find out? Just knock on her door in the Gnawed Noble and ask if she's missing any orgy-juice?"

"That could become a little ... embarrassing," said Leliana.

"Hmm," said Duran. "I hear she's missing a brother. Leverage, maybe? We should poke around at the brother thing, see what turns up. In the meantime," he rolled his shoulders, "I can't put off the Alienage any longer. There was another riot at the gate last night. You two," he nodded at Alistair and Zevran, "stay on this Kiss thing. Leliana, love, you're with them."

"Are you sure?" Leliana's eyes darkened a little.

"Of course I'd rather have you with me," said Duran. "They need you more than I do. Don't worry," he added. "I'll have Shale with me. If anyone touches a hair on my head, I'll have her sit on them."

Leliana's lips quirked and she leaned in to kiss Duran. It went on for a while.

Zevran eyed them appreciatively. Leliana was a master of the form, and Duran a promising journeyman, it seemed. Alistair's lips, eager and innocent ... He could not help but look at Alistair.

Alistair was looking at him. No. Alistair was looking at his _lips._

Some things were just a part of Zevran, as much as the quickness of his limbs, the colour of his hair. Despite the Kiss, despite everything, he could no more have resisted the impulse than he could have stopped breathing.

He wet his lips, a quick dart of his tongue along the lower lip to leave it moist and inviting.

Alistair's mouth dropped open just a fraction. Then his eyes came up, met Zevran's, widened.

He shot out of his chair, nearly turning it over. "So!" he said, his voice a little too loud. "Alfstanna's brother. Right. We should get on that, then."

Leliana dropped a final kiss on Duran's brow. "You are right. The Landsmeet will not wait."

"Be careful," said Duran, getting up. "And the two of you, watch out for my Brother. There's none I'd rather have at my back when the steel comes out, but this sort of thing is a bit out of your depth, Alistair."

"Don't I know it," Alistair muttered.

Lelianna took his arm as they left, squeezing it comfortingly. "Don't look so downcast, Alistair. That's what friends are for, to support one another. Zevran and I shall do the talking, and you can stand behind us looking large and intimidating, no?"

Zevran trailed them, speculation and possibility blooming in his mind like great, velvet night flowers. He had surely been the greatest fool on the face of Thedas. The problem at this point was - what was he going to do about it?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran makes a move.

Alfstanna's brother was a Templar, so the first step was clear enough: visit the Chantry.

Zevran had revised his opinion on Fereldens since arriving in their wet, dog-infested country, but he simply could not set aside his disdain for their architecture. Their castles were piles of rock, and their chantries were, well. Wooden floors. Bare walls. In Antiva, the stained glass of the windows were like jewels, and the gold and sumptuary goods of the Cathedral in Antiva City were famous the world over. The Denerim Chantry was bare as a bone in comparison.

A funeral had just ended, one of the daily dismal ceremonies as the city attempted to honor the legions of the Ostagar fallen. Mourners were filing out slowly, haggard faces and slumped shoulders, here and there anger lending a spark to haunted eyes. Beyond the crowd, the Reverend Mother who'd conducted the ceremony nodded and smiled compassionately at her flock.

Leliana took lead, slipping politely through the crush to genuflect to Andraste and then approach the Mother as the last of the funeral party exited. "Reverend Mother," she said softly.

"Leliana?" Joy replaced shock on the woman's face, and she enfolded Leliana in her arms. "I had not thought to see you again, since the news from Lothering. Thank the Maker."

Leliana hugged her back, warmly. "I feel His hand on my shoulder, Dorothea. Every day."

The Mother drew back and then glanced at Zevran and Alistair. "I sense you are not here for a reunion."

Leliana smiled. "Allow me to introduce the Grey Warden Alistair, and our companion, Zevran Arainai."

"Grey Warden?" asked Dorothea. "Again you walk a dangerous path, my child. May the Maker and His Bride watch over you." She cast a glance at the tail end of the mourners, some of whom were showing interest. "Let us retire to my office."

"You trust this woman?" Zevran asked Leliana, sotto voice, as they followed her further into the building.

"With my life," said Leliana. "This is where I stayed, after Marjolaine betrayed me."

"Here, now," said Dorothea, ushering them into a chamber. A large window cast light across a desk, a rug, and bookshelves so stuffed with books and paper they seemed to bulge. "How can I help?" Her eyes flicked between Leliana and Alistair. Zevran, willing to be overlooked, faded back by the door.

Leliana leaned forward. "We are tracking a missing Templar, Ser Irminric. Did he pass through here?"

"Irminric," mused Dorothea. "Let me check our records."

When it came to Templars, there was one sure way to keep track of them. The Reverend Mother hauled out a fat logbook and traced down the signouts of lyrium dust until she hit Irminric's name. "There," she said. "He passed through almost a year ago. He had a malificar in his custody, I knew I recalled his name for a reason."

"A malificar?" asked Alistair.

"Yes, they stayed one night and then left the next morning. A mage by the name of Jowan, it says here."

***

"Irminric is still here," said Zevran as they exited the Chantry. "Alive or dead, he is in Denerim."

"I agree," said Leliana. "This must be where Loghain got hold of Jowan."

"It all comes back to Loghain," said Alistair, clenching his fists.

"Easy, my friend," said Zevran. "He will get what is coming to him, if our Warden has anything to say about it. And yet, I cannot see Loghain sullying his hands with the imprisonment of a Templar, especially one so highly connected."

"Well, we all know what cat's paw he favoured in the past to do his dirty work, no?" said Leliana.

"Howe," said Alistair.

"Howe," agreed Leliana. "I am starting to think that a little trip into the Arl of Denerim's estate might not be a bad idea." She shot Zevran a mischievous glance.

He took her hand and bowed over it. "I shall await the night with bated breath," he said.

She sighed happily. "I do so enjoy our little outings, Zevran."

"I pray that you keep such pretty sentiments to yourself around our dear Warden," said Zevran.

"Oh, pssht," she said. "Duran is not the jealous type." Her eyes flicked past Zevran and narrowed very slightly. "Well!" she said breezily. "I have a few errands to run. Can I trust the two of you to return to Eamon's estate without me?"

"We were supposed to stay together," said Alistair. He was a bit flushed and a frown creased his brow.

"Piffle!" said Leliana. "You are five minute's walk from safety. I will see the two of you later." She spun away, dropped a wink at Zevran, and was gone.

Zevran watched her go, letting his head tip just a little sideways, letting an appreciative smirk pull the corner of his mouth upwards. "Ah," he sighed as she vanished behind a knot of giggling girls. "Dangerous women. A weakness of mine, I must admit."

Alistair was glaring at the ground. "She's with Duran," he said.

"That does not mean that one cannot admire from afar," said Zevran. "Am I not permitted to look upon things that delight me?"

Alistair looked up.

Zevran let his smirk widen and relax into something more sincerely appreciative than a simple leer.

Alistair, of course, went red.

 _How he must curse that fair complexion_ , Zevran mused as Alistair turned on his heel and strode off toward Eamon's gates.

Zevran trailed him as Alistair passed the gates, crossed the courtyard, entered the side door, and took the stairs two at a time to the second floor. He followed him past Zevran's own door and around the corner to where Alistair's suite lay. Finally, at the door to the suite, Alistair stopped and wheeled on him.

"What? What do you want?"

"Nothing," said Zevran.

Alistair glared, wrenched open the door to his suite, and slammed it again behind him.

Zevran leaned on the wall and began trimming his nails with his small boot knife. He got through four when the door opened again.

"What are you doing?" Alistair demanded.

"Nothing," said Zevran again. "I am doing nothing. Simply standing here."

"Can't you go stand ... somewhere else?" said Alistair. "I can't relax, knowing you're out here, doing your," he waved emphatically, " _nothing._ "

"I am crushed by your lack of trust," said Zevran. "I assure you, I have no nefarious designs." He pushed away from the wall and stepped into Alistair's personal space. The other man's eyes went wide. "But if you want something of me, then you have but to ask." He smiled up at Alistair, whose breath stuttered just a bit.

And then stepped away again and walked back down the hall to his room. He didn't have to look as he rounded the corner. He could _feel_ Alistair watching him go.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All new material here, kmemers.

The estate of the Arl of Denerim was large, sprawling, and well-guarded. It was very nearly another palace, stopping just short of actually challenging the Royal residence in opulence. Well, opulence as understood by Fereldens, which was a cross between _lots of stone_ and _poor imitation of Orlais_ , though they could hardly be blamed for the last one, after the occupation.

It was also ridiculously easy to break into.

Leliana didn't like it. Her mobile mouth was drawn tight and her brow creased as she worked the lock on the door to the Arl's study. Zevran was in agreement. Either the Arl was a careless fool, or this was a trap, or the guards had been drawn away on some other duty.

The door clicked open. The room was entirely free of tripwires, traps, glyphs, or hordes of irate guards waiting in ambush. Leliana rifled the desk and drawers with swift, meticulous efficiency, leaving each scrap of paper exactly as she found it. A secret compartment in the underside of the desk revealed a stack of obscene drawings that ranged from titillating, if blatant, to downright disturbing. Leliana put them back with a moue of distaste and then surveyed the room, hands on hips.

This was not Zevran's expertise but his eyes caught on the ornate carving above the hearth. He touched her elbow and nodded. She toed a small scuff mark across the floor to one side, eyed a nearby chair, and then swarmed up the side of the fireplace with an acrobat's skills. A poke, a twist, and a gargoyle's face swung outwards. Inside was a sheaf of papers that Leliana skimmed through avidly. At one point her eyes widened and something like horror crossed her face.

Outside, the tramp of feet, the creak of a poorly oiled gate opening. Zevran stepped to the window and saw a sizeable party entering the gate at the rear of the grounds. Hoods were thrown back. The Arl was in the midst of his men, just before a slumped, cloaked figure lolling between two guards. Rich skirts peeked through the cloak. A woman. Absent gods preserve her, because he did not have the time nor resources. He whipped his hand in a circle, and Leliana nodded, rearranging the papers and laying them carefully away again.

They went out the way they'd come in, over a balcony and down the shadowed inner corner of a tower. Zevran's hands were aching by the time they descended. Cat's Claws were an excellent tool but, by the gods, they were hard on the knuckles.  
They rested in the deserted marketplace around the corner, divesting themselves of their dark outer clothing and wiping their faces clean of soot.

"Anything of use?" asked Zevran quietly as he drew the moist cloth across her forehead.

"Yes," she said. "He's got the Templar in his basement. He's also got a Warden."

"A Grey Warden?" One of Alistair's comrades? Zevran restrained his questions. This was not the place.

Her eyes were grave. "Duran needs to know this. At once."

***

Duran was waiting for them, sipping tea in the library. He looked amazingly comfortable and natural in the silk and velvet, as at home in the lap of luxury as he was armored in plate and covered in blood. Alistair was there as well, stretched out and snoring on a couch.

"Insisted on staying," Duran said quietly, nodding at him. "All heart, no brains, that kid. Whatcha got, sweetheart?"

Leliana sat on the edge of his chair. "He has Alfstanna's brother," she said. "Also the former Arl of Denerim's son, Bann Sighard's heir, some elves that apparently know too much, and an Orlesian Grey Warden."

Duran sat up at that one, eyebrows raising.

"Orlesian," said Zevran. "Not a survivor of Ostagar, then."

"No. He came seeking news after the tale of the defeat there reached the Wardens in Val Royeaux. He got no further than the gates of the Warden compound."

"I want him," muttered Duran. "Dammit. We can't afford an assault on Howe, and I can't see how else we could get anyone out of there."

"Not after this long," said Zevran. "If he still lives, it is unlikely he is in any shape to even walk."

"We can't leave them there," said Leliana. "None of them."

"Lelli," began Duran, reasonably.

"We need them," said Leliana. "Grey Warden experience aside, those are two Landsmeet votes, rotting there in his dungeon. Possibly three, if Alfstanna is being influenced."

"Clever," said Duran, curling an arm around her hips. "Clever girl."

She smirked a little at him. "I'm more than a pretty pair of ... lips."

"Hmmmnn," said Duran. It was distinctly more growly that his standard. "Alright. Still, we can't go kicking down Howe's door just yet. Leliana, to to Alfstanna tomorrow and do that bard thing you do so well. Feel her out."

Zevran coughed a little.

"Ha ha," said Duran. "Go to bed, little Crow." He and Leliana left, his arm about her waist. She bent lithely over as they passed into the hallway and whispered something in his ear. Or perhaps slid her tongue into it, the angle made it difficult to tell. Either way, he chuckled roughly.

Zevran gave himself an indulgent moment to imagine them together, Leliana winding her long limbs about Duran's short, powerful body. His thick, blunt fingers in her hair. He sighed a bit, appreciatively.

Across the room, Alistair twitched and whimpered in his sleep. He was all awkwardly scrunched to fit on the short lounge, his knees drawn up and one arm trailing on the floor. His collar was unfastened, his boots were off. As Zevran settled on the floor near his head he jerked again, the trailing hand tightening into a fist.

"Dun ... Dunca - wait ... " The words were blurred but comprehensible. "Ah! No, no ..."

"Alistair," Zevran said firmly.

The brown eyes sprang open. "I - what?"

"You were dreaming," said Zevran. "It did not look like the fun sort."

"Er ..." Alistair pushed himself upright, looked around. "Oh. I fell - oh. You're back, then."

"We are," agreed Zevran.

"Good. Well. Where's Duran?"

"Off to bed with his sweet bard," said Zevran. "We should emulate them, perhaps."

Alistair looked at him, eyes wide, hair standing up in all directions. There was a red mark on his cheek where it had pressed against a seam in the cushion. Lust, almost as powerful as the touch of the Kiss, moved in Zevran's belly. _Patience._ As swift and mindless as their first encounter was, that was how slow and deliberate he was determined to make their second.

"Good night," he said, and rose.

"Zev," said Alistair.

He turned at the door, one eyebrow raised.

"Did you, when you woke me, did you say ..."

"Yes?"

"Nothing," said Alistair, glancing away. "I'll, uh, see you tomorrow."

" _Que sueñes conmigo_ ," said Zevran, watched Alistair swallow, and then left, a smile tugging his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Que sueñes conmigo._ = May you dream with me.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran takes a different tack. Solely to get into Alistair's pants again. Of course.

The next day, Zevran began his campaign in earnest.

In the normal order of things, he would have made breakfast a siege of sidelong looks and innocent licking of fingers and the accidentally creative eating of fruit. Alistair required more subtle handling, however. Handing the cheese plate over just before Alistair opened his mouth to ask for it, a frank and open smile when their eyes met, deflecting Morrigan's occasional spiteful sally Alistair's way.

It was like watching a bud begin to blossom, the way that Alistair unwound a little, and then a little more. When he pushed away from the table he offered Zevran a small, self-conscious smile before he fled upstairs again.

Zevran leaned back in his chair and ate a grape with slow appreciation. At last he was back in familiar territory. Seduction was an art as much as was the blade, and his training in it had been as rigorous. The circumstances were a little peculiar, certainly, and he had no intention of following through as his Crow instructors had required, but the steps of the dance were still the same. That his target was Alistair, a man he had long ago given up the hope of bedding, only made it more delicious.

And if a second bout of passion, this time entirely of his own volition, helped Alistair to forget or forgive the first, all to the better. Zevran well remembered Rinna's kindness in the days following his time in the Red Room.

"It is always lovely to see a master at work," Leliana murmured to him.

"I do try," said Zevran smugly. "How was the Alienage?" he asked Duran, who grimaced.

"Some kind of shenanigans going on over there, that's for damn sure. This sickness is a front, I'm convinced. The elves say that anyone who goes into the clinic that's been set up there doesn't come back out again. Men with Tevinter accents at the doors - the whole thing smells of slaving, which means magisters, which means I want my mages killers at my back when I go in there."

"I am at your disposal," said Zevran, mentally reviewing his stock of magebane.

"Wynne, sweetheart, how do you feel about an outing?"

"You know you can rely on me, Duran," said Wynne.

Behind her, Morrigan made a gagging motion.

"Another time, Morri," said Duran. "When I need people weeping in fear."

She rolled her eyes. "'Tis of no matter to me whom you drag into that festering hole," she said. "I simply do not see the point of assisting those who cannot summon the will to assist themselves."

"As we assisted you with Flemeth, you mean to say?" asked Zevran. He smiled charmingly into Morrigan's glare.

"Alright, enough," said Duran. "Get Alistair and meet us at the gate. I gotta go get into the Juggernaut. Fucking blood mages."

Alistair's door was open when Zevran arrived, and he was buckling on the Warden armor they'd taken at the old Keep. Sophia Dryden had been a formidably sized woman, but it had taken Wade's genius and a lot of gold to get it altered for Alistair. Worth it, in Zevran's opinion, watching his face as he adjusted the left greave.

"Can I assist you?" he asked.

Alistair startled and dropped the other greave. It rang like a bell as it hit the flagstone and Zevran darted forward to catch it.

"Not a scratch," he said, presenting it for inspection.

"It's armor," said Alistair. "It's meant to be scratched. And dented. And generally beat on. So that I don't get beat on."

"Well, then, shall we continue to get you into it?" asked Zevran. "Since I very much prefer you undented." He didn't wait for an answer, simply knelt down at Alistair's feet and commenced to fit the greave to Alistair's firm, rounded calf.

"I can do it," Alistair protested without much force.

"And then you complain about your buckles until Wynne or Duran helps you adjust them," said Zevran. "Allow me to shortcut the process, yes?" He turned his face up and smiled at Alistair. His cheek nearly brushed Alistair's thigh.

"Um," said Alistair.

"That was not a no," said Zevran, reaching for the next piece.

It took twenty minutes to get Alistair fully attired, during which Zevran very deliberately did not touch him in any lascivious manner, nor make any comments about his body, nor tease him with looks or gestures or words. He was friendly and warm. Twice he let himself catch his breath just a little as Alistair stretched and flexed, settling one bit of armor or another. There was a strange sort of duality in it - part of him was calculating each move in his strategy, and another was simply enjoying this intimate, uncomplicated time with Alistair.

When they'd finished, and Alistair was a tower of dragonbone and blue enamel, Zevran stepped back to survey his work. "Impressive, if I say so myself. Should the assassin career not work out, perhaps I might become a squire."

Alistair snorted. "Yes, I can just see you polishing armor and cleaning up after some chevalier's horse."

"I once shared a tent with Oghren," Zevran reminded him. "The most incontinent horse in Orlais cannot but compare favorably."

Alistair laughed outright at that one and then grinned at Zevran, open and cheerful as a mabari pup.

"We're keeping Duran waiting," said Alistair. "Let's get going."

"Lead on, my friend," said Zevran.

He almost missed the slight flicker in Alistair's eyes at that, brief as it was. It took a second to make the connection. _I want you to use my name._

Well. He smiled at Alistair's back. All in good time.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> KISSING.
> 
> COCKBLOCKS.
> 
> KIDNAPPING.
> 
> In that order.

"Fucking blood mages," said Duran.

"Do quit squirming," said Wynne. "That damned magister managed to actually boil the blood in your left arm."

"Don't really need the details," Duran grunted.

"It's going to be okay," said Alistair, wrenching the lock off one of the cages. The elves inside crowded up against the bars. "We'll get you out of there, hang on."

Zevran sat on a crate, utterly exhausted. The battle had been prolonged and dirty and in very tight quarters. His gut was roiling from the amount of elfroot he'd ingested and his left leg was still tingling from hip to ankle with the aftermath of a freezing spell he'd not quite managed to avoid.

Alistair wiped absently at his face as the elves streamed past him, leaning on one another and clamoring with gratitude and relief. He looked across the room and locked eyes with Zevran. He came over, dodging grubby elven children, and went clangingly to one knee in front of Zevran. "Are you alright?"

"Just tired, I assure you," said Zevran. He summoned a gently mocking smile and reached out to touch a finger to Alistair's damp cheek. "Tears? You will destroy the Warden's fearsome reputation."

"Ahh," said Alistair dismissively. "No one looks to me to maintain that. Duran's tough enough for the both of us." He stripped off a gauntlet and rubbed at his face. "I just - Maker, children, Zevran. Chained like beasts. And from what they said, we didn't get here in time. They already shipped off ..." He drew a breath.

"Yes," said Zevran. He flexed his fingers. He'd taken the freezing as the price of sinking both blades into the magister's back. The look on the man's face when he felt the bite of the magebane had been as sweet as wine.

"Alright," said Duran, hauling himself upright. "Which one of you is Valendrian?"

An elderly elf stepped forward. "You don't look Tevinter ..." he said uncertainly.

"Shianni sends her regards," said Duran. "You're free."

"Praise the Maker!"

"Yes, yes, hurrah for your absent father in the sky," grumbled Duran. "Get on back to your homes."

The elves cleared out, streaming out the back entrance. Cries of joy and surprise rose up from the streets outside.

Duran folded the damning documents carefully and handed them to Wynne, who tucked them into her bodice. Zevran tried to find enough energy to honor the moment with a remark and then just sighed.

"Come on," said Alistair, holding out a hand. "Let's get out of here."

Zevran took it and let himself be pulled upright. "I could not agree more," he said, stepped forward, and crumpled. " _Brasca_!"

"Zev!" A massive armored hand caught him up the arm and bore him up. "Wynne! Zev's hurt!"

Wynne hurried over, extending hands alight with the familiar soothing blue glow. "The muscles of your left leg are simply overstressed," she said. "A night's rest should put it mostly right, though you may want to inquire if the Arl keeps a masseuse on retainer. You are going to be stiff as a board tomorrow."

Zevran opened his mouth and then shut it again. The wealth of opportunities for lascivious remarks was altogether overwhelming.

"Here," said Alistair. "Put your arm over my shoulder."

"Too kind," said Zevran. Limping all the way across the city was not going to be fun.

He had to do very little work, as it turned out. Alistair put an arm about his waist and more or less carried him the entire way, from the bloodstained room in the Alienage to his own chamber at the Arl's estate. Still, by the time Alistair eased him down onto his bed, he was weary enough to just lay back and shut his eyes.

"I'll be right back," said Alistair. "Don't move."

Zevran half-lifted a hand, already succumbing to sleep.

***

Air stirring. Scuff of feet on stone. Dagger hand coil and push _pain!ignoreitMOVE_ eyes open in time to see wide brown eyes and golden hair underneath him and then they hit the floor and Zevran halted the short sideways thrust that would have opened Alistair's windpipe.

"Ah," he said. His left leg now hurt so badly it was spasming. "Not the recommended way to awaken a Crow, my friend."

"I - can see that," said Alistair.

Zevran laid the knife down on the floor. "My apologies. I do not seem to be able to get up again."

Alistair took hold of his shoulders and rolled him carefully off to one side. Their bodies slid together for a brief, heated moment, and Alistair went a bit pink. "Let's get you back into bed," he said, scrambling to his feet and reaching down. Zevran said absolutely nothing but Alistair blushed harder anyway. "I mean, for resting."

It wasn't as if there was anything else Zevran could have been doing in any case - his leg jumped and cramped as if possessed. He sat back against the pillows and began kneading it with both hands, hissing and cursing shortly.

"Here," said Alistair, fumbling in a pocket. "I got a warmth balm from Wynne, she said it would help."

"That woman is a saint and a treasure," said Zevran. He unscrewed the lid and scooped out a red-tinged dollop. "Might I request that you remove my boot?"

Alistair unlaced and tugged, his nose twitching. "Yeuch," he said as the boot came free. "These things stink, Zevran."

"I know," said Zevran fondly. He smeared balm down the length of his thigh and sighed as the heat sank in.

Alistair unfastened the other boot and tossed the pair into the corner. "I seriously don't know how you stand to wear those things."

"You have no room to lecture me, Ser 'If it's dry, it's clean.'"

"That was one time!" Alistair protested. "And it was mostly to get a rise out of Wynne." He grinned a little. "Mostly."

Zevran took a deep breath and then dug his thumbs into his large thigh muscle. It was like stone, jumping, quivering stone. " _Concha de Creador_ ," he gritted.

"Here," said Alistair, sat on the bed, and rubbed balm into his palms. "You're supposed to always move toward the heart," he said. He cupped Zevran's leg beneath the knee with one hand and set the heel of his other just above the kneecap. "To promote bloodflow," he said and pushed upward. Firm, even pressure rolled up the length of the tight muscle, agonizing and soothing at the same time. "'S what they taught us in the Templar barracks, anyway," he said.

"Suddenly I want to be a Templar," said Zevran.

Alistair huffed a laugh. "No you don't. It was very boring. No wine, no women, no _wanting_ allowed." The balm warmed and slid between their skins. Alistair's hands were large and square with long, capable fingers. Zevran remembered them well.

Alistair shifted his grip, began working on Zevran's calf. "Relax, will you," he said.

"I am finding it difficult," said Zevran. His voice came out a bit roughly.

Alistair's hands stilled. "Zev," he said and looked up. "What's going on? Is this just a, a game, or what? Because I'm confused."

"What is confusing?" asked Zevran. "My interest, or yours?"

"I didn't think you were. Interested," said Alistair. His colour was high again, but he forged on regardless. "After - after, you seemed like you regretted it. And I - I didn't know how to feel. I always thought that my first time would be with someone who at least wanted to be there." He half-laughed. "Actually, I thought it would be with a girl. With blue eyes. And big - well, anyway." He shook his head. "But afterward, I kept thinking. About it. About you."

Zevran knelt up on the bed, keeping his weight on his right leg, and took hold of Alistair's collar with both hands.

"Um, and I, um, I really don't know how to go about wooing, especially when it comes to men ..." Alistair faltered.

Zevran kissed him.

Alistair's mouth. Firm yet pliant lips, scruff of stubble, the little sigh he loosed when Zevran coaxed him to open. He had remembered his lessons, every one, and when Zevran drew back it was with steepened breath and tripping heart. Alistair swallowed, eyes dark and cheeks flushed.

"Wait," he said as Zevran leaned in to kiss him again. "Wait, I want to know ..."

"Know what?" Zevran, denied Alistair's lips, moved to the line of his jaw.

"Ah, what this ... this is, stop that, I'm trying to talk!"

Zevran drew away, head tilted to one side. "I desire you. You have said that you desire me. Should we not enjoy one another?"

"I don't," Alistair scrubbed his hands through his hair in frustration. "I don't just desire you. I - I like you."

"Ah," said Zevran. "Well, I am eminently likeable, it is true. I like you as well."

"Why are you acting so stupid?" Alistair said irritably. "I know you aren't."

Zevran sighed. "You are infatuated," he said. "It is normal. Our experience was very intense, the more so because it was your first. I do not mind, truly." He smiled. "You will work your way through it, and I - well, I shall try and endure with fortitude."

Alistair looked aghast. "I wouldn't - you aren't ..."

"I am more than willing," said Zevran. "I have made no secret of it."

Alistair said nothing.

Zevran reached out and took his hand. "Come," he said. "We are friends, are we not?"

"Yes," said Alistair.

"Would I be your friend to leave you wanting? To let you have nothing but the Kiss to think back on when next you take someone to bed?" He edged closer. "Let me show you the glory of lovemaking now that your mind is your own."

Alistair was looking at Zevran's lips now, conflict clear in his features.

"Alistair," Zevran whispered.

The other man swayed toward him.

The door flew open and Duran stuck his head in. "Knock off the canoodling," he said shortly. "We got a problem."

Alistair recoiled from Zevran and half-slid, half-leapt to his feet. "What's going on?" he asked.

 _He can break you like a twig,_ Zevran reminded himself. _Do not attempt to stab Duran._

"Anora's been pinched, apparently," said Duran, grimacing.

"Pinched?" asked Alistair, making a little pincer motion with the fingers of one hand.

"Taken," said Zevran. "Abducted. By who?"

"Who else?" said Duran. "Your old friend Rendon Howe." He grinned, and there were a lot of teeth in it. "Guess it's time to kick in his door after all."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Zevran. You can't stay dumb forever.

"You aren't coming," said Duran. "You are staying here and resting your leg."

"Leliana has not returned," argued Zevran. "Surely you will need someone with experience of, of traps and locks and ..."

"You're of no use to me injured," said Duran. "Stop whining, Zevran."

Zevran bit down on his tongue and made a bow. His leg twinged, as if to side with Duran. "As you command, dear Warden."

"He didn't mean it like that," said Alistair, as Duran stomped off to chivvy Wynne. "He's just - Leliana was supposed to be back this afternoon, and it's nearly nightfall."

"I am not offended," said Zevran.

Alistair raised an eyebrow at him.

The door to the sitting room slammed back against the wall and Leliana strode in, face tense and pale.

"Lelli," Duran said. One word, with his heart in it.

She crossed the room to him in four strides and flung her arms around him, bending her head to rest on his.

He hugged her back, fiercely, and then put her from him. "What is it?"

"There are Crows in Denerim," she said.

Zevran felt a curious thrill run from his scalp to his toes. _Crows._ Here to kill him for his desertion? Or - a sudden pit opened in his stomach - to finish the contract he'd botched? He turned to Alistair and met worried brown eyes.

"Are they here for Zev?" Alistair asked.

"I do not know," said Leliana. "Alfstanna is with us. She has a servant positioned in the palace, who overheard Howe and Loghain arguing several days ago about, well, you, Zevran. Apparently the Crows have sent an apology for your defection."

"How many?" asked Zevran.

"I don't know. More than one."

"There will be three at least," said Zevran. "And since they know I am with you, they will not be using any of the usual resources."

"Alright, alright," said Duran. "We have other priorities right now. What else did Alfstanna say?"

"She wants her brother safe before she will pledge her vote."

"Amazing how many birds we're going to kill with this 'invade the Arl's estate' stone," said Alistair.

"What?" Leliana asked.

"Howe's got the Queen," said Duran. "We're off to win us some royal favor."

"It could be a trap!" Leliana glanced at Alistair and then at Wynne, both kitted out for action. "You were going to go without me?" Her plush lips drew tight and she burst into a spate of Orlesian.

"Ah, best we let them work this out alone," said Zevran, tugging on Alistair's arm. Wynne was already vacating the room.

They slipped into the hallway just as the _crack_ of a slap echoed out. Alistair winced. Duran's soothing rumble was overrun by more Orlesian, which was abruptly cut off.

"Ah, amore," said Zevran.

Wynne snorted. "I'm sure they will be out shortly," she said. "Or perhaps not so shortly. Shall we await them in the front hall?"

"Right," said Alistair, blushing a little.

Zevran caught his elbow as he turned to go. "Alistair," he began and then was left wordless at the way that Alistair's face changed.

Alistair stepped in, bent down, and kissed him. Sweet and soft, framed by Alistair's hands cradling his jaw, Alistair's fingers slipping behind his ears and into his hair. Tender in a way that thrilled and terrified.

"Oh!"

They broke apart to see Duran and Leliana in the doorway of the sitting room, Leliana smiling brightly at them and Duran coughing into a hand. "Can we get a move on, then?" he asked, considerably less gruffly than before. The imprint of a slap was just beginning to fade on his cheek.

"Right," said Alistair. He was a bit flushed but his gaze was steady. "Soonest begun and all that." He smiled at Zevran and then was gone, rattling down the stairs.

Duran raised his eyebrows at Zevran and Leliana winked as they went past. He could only summon a weak ghost of his habitual smirk.

He had only felt like this once before. It had ended in blood and tears and betrayal, the acid burns of which were still raw upon his soul. Stupid. So stupid and so juvenile and so _dangerous_ , with Crows in the city, here for his blood. _Your heart must be cold, bent only to the kill._

Alone in the hallway, Zevran shuddered.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prep for rampant BAMFness in 3, 2, 1 ...

_I should leave._

Of all the thoughts currently circulating in Zevran's brain, that was the most insistent. He'd gotten as far as hauling out his pack and stuffing shirts into it. Then he'd thrown the thing at a wall.

" _Me cago en creador!_ " His hands trembled. He clutched them in his hair. Was he truly this weak? " _Me está agilipollado,_ " he muttered to himself. He needed ... he needed to not think. To not think about Alistair's kiss and Alistair's eyes and Alistair's smile. To not think about the trap that was surely waiting at Howe's estate or the Crows watching for their chance or the thousand different ways there were to kill even large, stubborn, golden haired Grey Wardens.

Liquor would not serve. His leg would not allow the physical discipline of drills. What was left? Prayer? The embrace of a lover?

 _I want no one but him._

He found a windowsill overlooking the gates of Eamon's estate and huddled in it, watching the street below with all the alert intensity he'd ever brought to a contract.

At last, movement. Seven figures, slow moving, some supporting the others. He leapt from the sill, darted down the stairs and drew to a halt in the main hall. The others of the Warden's companions converged as well. Eamon hurried up, flanked by servants as Leliana and Wynne cast off their cloaks. The third woman pushed back her hood with more caution, looking around. Pale skin, blonde hair, crystalline blue eyes. Four men, none of them Alistair, all of them pale faced and haggard.

"Your Majesty," said Eamon, bending with restrained correctness over the blonde's hand.

"Arl Eamon," said the Queen. "I place myself in your care."

"Where is - where are the others?" Zevran demanded, impatient with these stupid formalities.

"Taken," said Leliana, her eyes flashing with fire. "Loghain's lieutenant was there, with mages and archers. Duran and Alistair stayed behind to give us time to get the Queen away."

Rage flooded his insides like an acid bomb, coupled with fear. _They will die,_ he thought, redly. _Everyone, up to Loghain himself._

"We must get them back," Leliana was saying.

"They will be taken to Fort Drakon," said the Queen. She clasped her hands together. "You cannot simply assault the the place."

"Are we sure this is wise?" asked Eamon.

"Is it better to leave them there?" demanded Leliana.

"Loghain will not kill them," said one of the men, dark haired and weathered.

"Who are you?" Eamon asked stiffly.

"Senior Warden Riordan," said Leliana. "He was in the dungeons at Howe's, along with Bann Vaughan, Ser Oswin, and Ser Iminiric." She gestured at the other men. "They need food and rest." Her gaze lingered on Iminric, who shivered and twitched. "If you can find some lyrium, that would also be well. This man is a Templar."

"Yes, of course," said Eamon, gesturing at his staff, who stepped in and began to lead the ex-prisoners away toward warmth and food.

Riordan drew away from the footman who tried to take his elbow. "Are there no other Wardens here?"

"You are lucky that there are any at all," said Wynne, with a touch of frost.

"That is not good," said Riordan. "Only a Warden can kill the Archdemon. It's the only reason Loghain kept me alive."

"Loghain may need a Warden but he will not let Alistair live," said Zevran. "He is too much of a threat."

Eamon went pale. "We need Alistair," he said. "He is the only man who can rally the nobles at the Landsmeet."

Anora's face went a bit pinched.

"By the Stone," said Oghren, hefting his axe, "what are we waiting for?"

"Anora is right, we cannot march up and start bashing heads in. Cleverness is what is required now. Zevran and I will go," said Leliana. "We are uniquely suited to the task, no?"

"Is your leg up to -" Wynne began.

"It is my leg," said Zevran. "It will do as I bid." He spun on his heel and went back up the stairs three at a time to his room. Bombs and poisons and a garrotte, yes. He pulled on his boots and laced them quickly, trying not to think about Alistair sitting on this bed, Alistair's hooded eyes and parted lips and calloused fingers.

"I do not," he said out loud to the room, "have time for this."

"Zevran!" Leliana, downstairs.

He went out, seating his daggers on his back, walling away the lingering ache in his leg and the all-too-personal fear in his gut and the frantic tumble of his thoughts. A distracted assassin was a dead assassin.

They paused in the hall, doing one last quick inventory. Anora was gone, tucked away somewhere with Eamon, no doubt. Wynne fussed a bit over Zevran, casting a quick rejuvenation, for what good it might do.

"Good luck," said Shale. "I hope your squishy bodies are up to the task."

Morrigan lurked in a corner, arms folded, lips tight. "I have grave doubts on that account," she said. "Try to retrieve at least one of them alive."

"I'm sure your concern will warm their hearts," said Zevran, checking his concealed daggers.

"Ten gold says they're breaking out as you're breaking in," said Oghren. "Aeducans aren't known for laying down and taking it."

"Well then, we'll meet them in the middle," said Leliana with a brave smile. They stepped out into the Denerim night.

***

"I've been called many things in my time," said Leliana into Zevran's ear as he struggled with the lock on the doors to the dungeon wing, "but 'item of an intimate nature' is a new one, even for me."

"Alas," said Zevran. The banter was familiar, soothing in a way. "Have I offended you?"

"Not at all," she said. "It quite reminded me of ... oh, Maker."

The door opened and the air that wafted through was redolent of dank stone, filth, and human misery. Someone, far below, wailed out in fear or agony.

Leliana had gone pale and her eyes were shadowed with some remembered pain. "Zevran, I ..."

"Put it aside," he told her. "Whatever it is, put it aside until we are done here." As he was putting aside, even as he spoke, the thought of Alistair, stretched on some machine of torture, his beautiful body racked and torn ...

"Yes," said Leliana, firming her jaw. She drew her blades and the faint ring of the metal was like fingers down his spine, waking his every nerve. She nodded to him.

They went down. There are guards, men of straw and gauze who fell down easily, so easily. He had never felt this way, as though the world were paper and he was made from fire. It was easy, until they found the floor and found the cell and found Duran, strangling a guard through the bars with his bare hands, fury and fear etched into his broad features.

"Duran!" Leliana flew across the space between and opened the man's throat with a sideways flick, stepping neatly away from the spray of blood. They clasped hands, the bard and her dwarf, but their joy hardly registered.

Zevran scanned the cell behind Duran and then the one beside, which held only a thin, scarred man with a tangled beard who lifted his hands defensively. "Where is Alistair?"

Leliana opened the cell door and Duran came out, shoulders hunching with familiar, pre-combat power. "They took him, or so says my neighbor," he said, low and furious. "An hour ago. I just woke, myself."

Zevran clenched one fist and wheeled on the prisoner. "Where."

"The machine rooms," said the man, pressing himself back against the wall. "There ain't nowhere else they take you once you're in here."

For a moment Zevran could not breathe. Machines. The rack. The water. The irons. _No._

"Further down," said Leliana, fumbling at the lock on the man's cell. It gave way with a small rusty scream. "They're always further down."

Duran put a hand on her back, comforting. She found a smile for him, small and wavering. "So we go down," he said.

They found Duran's gear in a side room, cluttered together in a large chest. Alistair's things were there as well. Zevran touched one fingertip to the insignia on the front of the Grey Warden armor while behind him, Leliana helped Duran strap on his plate.

"Get over here and help," Duran said. "Leave that," he added, nodding at the chest. "We'll fetch it later, if we can. Fifty pounds of plate is nothing to be dragging around in a sack during combat."

Zevran bent to the task. Just that morning he had done this for - _cease this maudlin self indulgence and focus. Are you a puling child, or are you a Crow?_

Down they went, and down and Zevran fought grimly, coldly. He had lost his fire. It was smothered under the weight of his fear, the pervasive chill of his memories. An hour could be made into eternity, if someone with skill applied themselves to the task.

And then they were in a long hallway with a noisome channel in the middle, and from a doorway halfway down a familiar voice lifted in a scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Me cago en creador!_ = I shit on the Creator.
> 
>  _Me está agilipollado._ = I am acting like a jackass. (This doesn't quite capture the flavour of the original - _gilipollas_ carries connotations of deliberate and self-aware stupidity.)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's getting all rather inevitable up in here.

The world went very clear. He smelled blood and sweat, saw each stain and gouge on the door. The grips of his daggers, the shift and flex of his armor, the voice from behind the scarred wood.

"Again. He still resists."

Another scream. A dwarven hand thrust Zevran aside and a wide, plate-armored foot connected with the door, shattering the frame and sending the door shuddering open into the room. Duran went through, sword and shield at the ready. Zevran went after him, Leliana at his side, breaking right and left as they cleared the doorway, assessing the enemy, assessing the threat.

There was a rack. There was someone on the rack, broad chest and tawny hair, and he did not let himself see it, did not let himself know it, because there was a mage to kill, tall and thin in dusty robes, one hand dripping blood.

His own blood, Zevran realized, when demons began to spill out of the ground. He dodged them, fire and shadow and bone, his eyes fixed on his prize. Duran roared a war cry that seemed to shake the very stone, and the mage staggered back. Zevran went into a roll that took him under the rack, passing swiftly beneath _no, no, do not think_ and up again beside the mage. He smelled blood and powerfully, intoxicatingly, the reek of fear. One arm wound round the mage's, trapping the dagger, and the other brought his own weapon up underneath the soft chin, quick and deadly as a striking snake.

He'd immobilized the wrong arm. The mage brought his bloody hand up and seized Zevran's face and suddenly he could not move. He tried, desperately, to press his dagger point into the mage's flesh, to finish the job.

The mage tilted his chin very carefully back, away from the point of Zevran's knife. "Let me go," he said.

The words echoed around inside Zevran's head. He fought grimly against them but he could feel his muscles shaking, his fingers slackening their grip ever so slowly. "Kill. You," he said.

The mage smiled. "Let go," he said again, and Zevran could not, could _not_ hold on any longer ...

His vision sheeted white. There was a soundless buffet of air and then his ears were ringing and the mage was staggering and there was nothing holding him, nothing at all. All his nerves and tendons snapped into abrupt, perfect accord and he buried the dagger hilt-deep beneath the mage's jaw.

"Zev ..."

He kicked the mage away and looked down. At Alistair. Bruised and beaten and bloody. Barely conscious.

" _Caro_." He slit the ropes but did not move Alistair's arms or legs. Too well he knew what that would feel like. "Was that you, at the end?"

"Liked that, did you?" Alistair whispered. "Holy Smite."

Zevran cast a glance at the room and saw with satisfaction that Leliana and Duran were putting a swift end to the last of the guards. "You do not disappoint," he said. He took hold of Alistair's right arm. "I am sorry, my heart, but this will not be pleasant."

"How about I just pass out then, save us all some trouble?" Alistair tried to smile, to _smile_ and it nearly broke Zevran.

"Whatever you must," said Zevran, and moved the arm.

Alistair screamed. And screamed again for the other arm. Both shoulders had dislocated, and it took all three of them to reseat the joints. Alistair did faint, halfway through the second one, and Duran had to slap him awake again to pour the healing potions down his throat. In the end, they got him on his feet, swaying and grimacing, but upright.

The way out was considerably easier than the way in. Duran even silently backtracked to fetch out Alistair's armor, though there was no question of him wearing it. He winced with every step, gritting his teeth and breathing with shaky, pained determination.

"Zevran," he said, as they waited in an alcove for Duran and Leliana to scout the front gates.

"Yes?"

"I remember everything about the Kiss. The whole night."

Zevran closed his eyes briefly. "Yes. I know."

"You do too."

"Yes."

"Tell me what the Antivan meant."

"When we get back to the Arl's estate."

"Now," said Alistair. "I need - something else to think about."

Zevran turned to him, caught that strong, vulnerable, beautiful face between his hands, and pressed a kiss to his lips, gentle and undemanding. Alistair made a little sound, surprised and happy. "Think about that," said Zevran. " _Caro_." He allowed himself a small smirk.

Alistair huffed out a laugh.

Leliana called out from the hall and Alistair accepted Zevran's support as they went forward. Zevran wound his arm around the other man's waist and grasped him as tightly as he dared, feeling his solidity, his firm, warm, breathing, living flesh.

This was not sentiment, Zevran knew, not mere infatuation. Absent gods, was there anything so laughable as a failed cynic? He took Alistair's weight, followed Duran through the open gates of Drakon, and very carefully did not think about the future.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran's past vs Zevran's future. Another All New Chapter.
> 
> ***
> 
> I was always bemused by Taliesen's Generic British Thug accent ingame. The dude is a _Crow,_ who grew up and trained with Zevran. Makie no sense, Bioware! Anyway, mine has an Antivan accent.

It was not until they were in some warren of side streets and alleys that Zevran remembered. He glanced up at the narrow strip of sky between the over-hanging top stories of the buildings around them and thought, _A magnificent spot for an ambush,_ and then his gut went cold and he opened his mouth and it was already too late.

Dark figures dropped from the rooftops, steel in hand. Leliana shouted a warning. Duran was already charging the largest group of them. There was the deep thrum of a bow and an arrow glanced off the brick above Zevran's head. Alistair - he could not leave Alistair ...

"Go!" Alistair shoved him, slid painfully down the wall into the scant protection of a pile of crates.

Zevran cursed. He could not leave Alistair so exposed but his greatest strength in combat was his mobility. Stuck here, unable to maneuver ... "Duran!" he shouted, parried a clumsy knife-strike and sent his attacker staggering away. There were three more behind him, one a man with a shield and a mace.

"Leave him." The voice was familiar and Zevran hissed a breath through his teeth.

The three stepped away, turned, and threw themselves into the struggling knot that surrounded Duran, leaving their leader alone on the street.

"Zevran." He looked the same. Tall and dark and immaculately groomed. The scent of alimander oil and cloves drifted into Zevran's nostrils, bringing with it a thousand memories of laughter and sharp-edged smiles and shared pain.

"Taliesen," said Zevran. "I should have known that it would be you."

"Who else would they send?" Taliesen smiled at him, perfectly calm, perfectly poised. "But in truth, I volunteered."

That hurt, just a little, in a place that Zevran had thought too calloused to prick. "How very foolish of you," he said, perfectly cool, perfectly confident.

The fight moved down the street, Duran no doubt thinking he was drawing it away from Alistair.

Taliesen glanced past Zevran, a bare flicker of eyes and Zevran held himself still, yet not _too_ still. Somewhere back there, Alistair shifted.

"Was he sweet?" asked Taliesen. A small smile tilted his lips.

"You ..." Alistair's voice was full of pain and rage.

Zevran made a sharp motion with his hand and Alistair bit off the rest of his words.

Taliesen's smile grew toothier. "Not the drug I would have chosen but when amateurs are brought in, mistakes do happen. I meant only for them to hold you unharmed."

 _What in the name of the absent gods was going on here?_ "Unharmed? How very unCrowlike of you, my friend."

Something shifted behind Taliesen's eyes and when he spoke again it was in Antivan. "It is not too late," he said. "I know why you did this and I do not blame you. Come back and we will tell them whatever you like."

Zevran was left speechless.

Taliesen opened his empty hands. "You can return," he said. "This ..." he waved a hand at Alistair, "... was nothing more than a long infiltration, no? The Masters will understand."

"I ..." said Zevran. The sound of the battle was some ways off now, around a corner.

"No more running, no more looking over your shoulder," said Taliesen. "Come home."

Gods. Gods, it would be so easy. Turn, take one step, put the dagger in under Alistair's ribs. It was everything he'd trained for, everything that he'd lived for. Cut away the weakness and the doubt and the possibility of pain.

"What's he saying?" Alistair asked.

"You are too late," said Zevran, in Fereldan. "I am sorry, Taliesen."

Taliesen nodded, mouth twisting a little in regret. "As am I."

"Shall we do our best to kill one another, then?" Zevran rolled his shoulders, ostentatiously.

"Ah, Zevran," said Taliesen. "Do you truly think I would come to face you alone?"

Two figures came out of the shadows behind him, dark leathers and twin daggers.

"Ah, Taliesen," said Zevran. "Do you truly think I did not know they were there?"

Leliana stepped up behind the Crow on the right and cut his throat.

Blood sprayed. The remaining Crow backflipped away from Leliana's second cut and then failed to dodge her roundhouse kick. Taliesen came directly at Zevran, knives materializing in his hands.

 _This._ This was what he was. Cut and parry and turn and kick. Fall back. Dodge. The flash of steel in the dark, the sound of his blood pounding in his ears and his opponent ( _prey_ ) in front of him. Taliesen was stronger but Zevran was faster, had always been faster. _There._ An opening, a blink of time where Taliesen did not turn fast enough, did not bring up his dagger quickly enough.

He staggered away, throat laid open. Dropped both knives, clamped one hand to the gouting wound. Fell to his knees.

Zevran watched him die, to be sure, and then turned away.

Alistair had made it to his feet, was even clutching a sword in one hand, although the point rested on the ground and he was leaning on it rather like a cane. His face was a white oval in the darkness.

"Zev?"

Human nightsight left much to be desired. "It is I."

Alistair dropped the sword and leaned back against the wall. "Maker," he said.

Leliana rose from her crouch over the second Crow, wiping her knives. There was a rapidly approaching jingle/rattle and then Duran rounded the corner, splashed with blood. He slowed as Leliana came out to meet him.

"Aeducan's gilded ass," he said, lifting his faceplate. "So that's why you ran off on me, sweetheart."

"Crows," she said.

"Hmmnn," he said, toeing Taliesen's body. His gaze flicked to Zevran, who met it steadily. "Alright then," he said. "Let's get the fuck out of here."


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a Happy Ending.

It took Wynne nearly an hour to repair all the damage to Alistair's ligaments and joints. Zevran leaned against the wall outside Alistair's rooms, body loose and mind screamingly tense. When the mage finally emerged, he surged upright.

"No permanent damage," she said tiredly. "Has anyone seen to you? Stand still."

Zevran accepted the wash of blue healing energy with impatience. "I am fine, dearest Wynne. If you are quite done ..."

"I am not," she said, her voice snapping with authority despite her weariness. "I wish to speak with you about Alistair. About you and Alistair."

Zevran cocked an eyebrow. "I do not believe that is any of your business," he said.

"He has become attached to you, Maker knows why," said Wynne. "He is not a man of casual lusts and so I must assume that he has seen something in you that is not ... apparent on the surface. I will only say this." She stepped closer and, despite the fact that such a move was utter stupidity for a mage confronting an assassin, Zevran had to concentrate not to fidget. "Do not hurt him." She pinned him with her gaze for a moment, then nodded to herself and went off down the hall.

 _Do not hurt him_. Was the woman stupid? Life was nothing but an opportunity for pain and love the open door through which it strolled. Gods above and below, how many times did he have to learn that lesson?

"Zevran?" Alistair called from within.

 _One more time at least, it seems._

"I know you're out there, doing your nothing."

Zevran contemplated his options. Acknowledgement. Remaining silent. Fleeing.

"Zev?"

He took a deep breath and went in.

Alistair was propped up against the headboard of his bed, pale and shadowed beneath the eyes, but well. Bruises and cuts had vanished and when he lifted his hand in invitation, it was without the slightest hesitation or flinch.

"Magic," he said with a ghost of a smile. "At times like these, I really don't see what the Chantry has against it."

"There is an argument for both sides," said Zevran, thinking about the blood mage. He sat, carefully, on the end of the bed.

"I don't want to sound like the fainting maiden in one of Leliana's songs," said Alistair, "but I knew you would come."

"My friend," said Zevran and Alistair's brows drew down.

"No," he interrupted, kicking Zevran lightly through the sheets. "Nope, none of that. You don't get to go from 'my heart,' to 'my friend.'" He was blushing a little but his tone was firm.

"Alistair," said Zevran.

"Better," said Alistair.

"I cannot do this," said Zevran, getting up again.

"Why?" asked Alistair.

"Because - because it is foolish. And dangerous. I am a Crow and you are a king and neither of us can afford such weakness!"

"You're not a Crow anymore," said Alistair. "I thought you made that pretty clear with Taliesen. And I'm not a king yet."

"You are naive," Zevran snapped.

"Why? Because I want to be happy?" Alistair glared at him. "Why is it alright to fuck me, but not to care about me?"

" _Terco necio_!" exclaimed Zevran, turning away.

"No," said Alistair, throwing off the sheets and scrambling after him. "No, you don't." He grabbed Zevran by the arm.

Zevran bared his teeth, seized Alistair's wrist, and twisted. Alistair dropped his shoulder, shifted his weight, and then they were grappling, cursing under their breath and scuffling across the floor. Neither made much headway, Zevran's speed and agility against Alistair's strength and endurance, and then Alistair let out a small cry and Zevran let his hands spring open, instantly contrite.

" _Caro_ , did I, are you ..."

Alistair grinned, swept a leg, and took Zevran to the floor where he pressed down with all his considerable weight.

" _Brasca_!," grunted Zevran. "You ... you cheated. I do not know whether to be shocked or proud."

"You're a bad influence," said Alistair. "What does _caro_ mean?"

Zevran writhed but could not free himself. "I do not have to answer a cheat."

Alistair leaned down and kissed him. Zevran closed his eyes and moaned a little into the other man's mouth. Alistair answered him, tilting his hips forward, letting Zevran feel his arousal. Maker, he was warm and he smelled of clean sheets and elfroot and soap.

He pulled away. "What does it mean?"

Zevran did not open his eyes. His heart was thundering, his head was a mess. "It means darling," he said hoarsely.

"And _tesoro_?"

"Treasure."

" _Amore mio_?"

Zevran turned his face away.

"Zev," said Alistair. "Don't tell me if you don't want to. It's alright. I lo-"

Zevran lunged upward and silenced him with another kiss.

The last time he'd kissed someone like this, without plan or artifice, it had been Rinna. Absent gods, had that been less than two years ago? It felt like a lifetime, a hard, cold, dry lifetime. His hands, when he fisted them in Alistair's loose shirt, shook as though with fever.

He broke away, gasping. "Take me to bed," said Zevran. "Please, _caro_."

Alistair stood, pulling Zevran with him, backed two steps, and sat down on the bed. His eyes were huge. Zevran climbed astride him and took his mouth again. He couldn't seem to lose himself in passion, could not just give in to his body's desires. It was the opposite of the Kiss. All he could think about was Alistair, his smile, his ridiculous shyness, his awkward, self-deprecating humor. The person inside the body pressed so deliciously against his.

"Zev," Alistair murmured. "Zevran." He ran large hands up Zevran's back, tugging at straps and buckles. The hardened leather came away at last, leaving just the sleeveless linen shirt beneath, which Alistair promptly stripped away as well. The feel of his hands against Zevran's skin was like coming home.

Zevran caught the bottom of Alistair's shirt and pulled gracelessly. He tossed the garment aside, looped his arms loosely around Alistair's shoulders and leaned in, shivering as their skin touched. Alistair put his face into the crook of Zevran's neck and shoulder. Zevran pressed his cheek to Alistair's hair. And they sat there for a while, just breathing.

" _Mio_ ," said Zevran at last. "My."

Alistair shifted fractionally, tightened his arms just a little.

" _Amore_ ," said Zevran. He took a trembling breath.

Alistair exhaled against him.

"Love," said Zevran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _terco necio_ = stubborn fool


End file.
